


The Funny Tricks of Time

by teenage_hustler



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Battle of Hogwarts, Christmas, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Fire, Fluff, Fred Weasley Lives, Friendship, Holiday Fic Exchange, Magic, Magical Bond, Mental Health Issues, Phobias, Pop Culture, Post-War, Slow Burn, Smut, Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-03
Updated: 2018-12-03
Packaged: 2019-09-06 08:17:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 28,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16828717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teenage_hustler/pseuds/teenage_hustler
Summary: Pansy stays behind during the Battle of Hogwarts, and as she attempts to run past Potter and a bunch of his Gryffindor posse, one of them grabs her, she pulls him backwards, the two of them lock eyes, and time stands still. A tiny moment changes everything.Nymphadorable, this fic has been a joy to write... despite it being about ten times longer than I initially planned! I've never written a Pansy/Fred before, but that pairing suggestion alone was enormously inspiring. I really hope you enjoy this fic.





	1. Half a Second of Eye Contact

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nymphadorable](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nymphadorable/gifts).



> One theme in this fic is the nickname, ‘Spoons’, that Pansy gives Ron. She gives Ron the nickname in 1998, several months after the Battle of Hogwarts, and justifies it with the principles of The Spoon Theory, which was first explained by Christine Miserandino in an essay published in 2003. So, obviously, there is a timing inconsistency here. Basically I came up with the idea of Pansy seeing Ron as somebody who ‘gives her spoons’ before I considered the practicalities of timelines, and by then I was too in-love with the idea to want to give it up. So, please excuse that oversight on my part.

**~1st-2nd May, 1998~**

Okay, Pansy admitted it. Suggesting that somebody grab Harry Potter and hand him over to the Dark Lord, in the middle of a Great Hall _full_ of Potter-lovers, was not her smartest move.

It wasn’t as if she wanted Harry Potter to die. Not really. It had been fun to hate him and his Band of Merry Gryffindors when they were all younger and the threat of the Dark Lord had been hypothetical at best, but now that he was back and taking over everything and everyone she knew and loved, she found herself developing a new appreciation for the things that the Dark Lord could not darken. Things were too serious and sad for her to hate much of anything anymore.

So, no. She did not want Harry Potter to die. She just wanted this, all of this, to be over. There was a moment, after the Dark Lord had guaranteed that nobody would be harmed if Potter were handed over. A moment where Pansy, despite knowing better at that stage, believed the Dark Lord.

The moment did not last long; a couple of seconds, at most. But it was enough. Enough for her to act on it, and do something that she could well be paying for for years to come.

If she made it out of this war alive, that was.

As Filch led her and her fellow Slytherins to the passage out of the school, Pansy was distracted from the act of silently kicking herself when she noticed something that made her heart stop. Draco was not there.

“No,” she whispered, as a wave of indecision overtook her. She knew that things were about to get unfathomably dangerous at Hogwarts, with her teachers and classmates battling against the friends and family with whom she had been raised. If she was here when the fighting commenced, she would be asked to pick a side. But, if she carried on, Draco might get caught in the frey. His father would force him to fight with the Death Eaters, and some plucky member of the Order of the Phoenix might notice his recognisable hair and aim a curse without stopping to think…

Pansy couldn’t do it. She couldn’t leave him.

And so, while crowds of students gathered inside the Room of Requirement, she snuck away.

Being sure to keep her head low, so she would not be easily recognised, she ran to the Slytherin Common Room first. She pelted up the stairs to her dormitory, yanked open the drawer of her bedside table, and pulled out a small, wooden doll. It was a little something she had made in her 5th year, when she had been infatuated with Draco and wanted to know where he was at all times. Now that she was thoroughly over that infatuation, the fact that she still owned this charmed doll was a little embarrassing. Right then, however, she was abundantly grateful that she had been too lazy to throw it away. It was exactly what she needed.

Pansy pushed the drawer closed and ran out of the dormitory. She ducked into a nearby corridor, held the wooden doll to her lips and whispered, “where’s my Drakie-poo?” Forcing herself not to cringe at the revolting nickname, she watched the doll shake itself awake, stand on the palm of her hand, and point upwards.

 _Perfect_ , she thought, sarcastically, _I just came from there_. So she retraced her steps, watching the doll as it directed her up seven flights of stairs. As she continued to climb, she became more and more certain that Draco was somewhere near the Room of Requirement. _Again, perfect. I was just there. Where the hell was he? Why didn’t I see him there?_

As she approached the Room, however, the doll suddenly collapsed in her hand, as lifeless as it had been before she had spoken the awful incantation. Pansy frowned. That meant one of two things. Either Draco was dead (a possibility that she simply refused to fathom until she saw his lifeless body with her own eyes), or he had just entered the Unplottable Room of Requirement. The doll had behaved similarly many times last year.

When she reached the section of hallways where the door to the Room had previously been, she was greeted with a frustratingly blank wall. She tried to bring the door back a couple of times, but it wasn’t moving for her. The Room was evidently no longer in the form of the army training room/giant bedroom/whatever-the-fuck-else-it-was room that it had been before. If it was, she would have easily been able to get in. However, the room was not empty either, because, if it were, she would have been able to create her own style of Room with it. No. Some people, including Draco, had to be in that Room, and it had to be being used in a secretive way, like Draco had done before.

Unfortunately, she had never found out how to get into the Room while Draco had been using it. During her sixth year, whenever she had learned that he was in there, she had given up and figured she would try to find him again later. That wasn’t an option for her now. She also could not stay there, in that main corridor, completely exposed. The walls around her were shaking, and she kept being passed by frantic students and members of the Order running from one window to the next, shooting aggressive dueling spells in a desperate attempt to keep the Death Eaters out of the castle. There was no way that was going to last, and Pansy did not want to risk being seen by anybody who might stop and look closely enough to recognise her.

So she ran into a side corridor, located a portrait she knew from past experience had just enough space behind it for a reasonably slim person to hide, and stayed there, keeping the lifeless doll in her sight.

The castle continued to shake from the spells being hurled at it, and Pansy felt showers of dust land on her head and shoulders. She knew she could not stay there for much longer, but she wanted to hold on until the last possible minute, just in case Draco left the Room of Requirement.

After about twenty minutes, there was a loud, almost ungodly roaring sound. Pansy felt a blast of terrifyingly hot air, then heard the loud slamming of a door and the loud _thump_ of several heavy weights hitting the ground. Her doll suddenly sprang to life and pointed eagerly toward the main corridor. Pansy breathed a sigh of relief. Draco was alive and out of the Room.

She swung the portrait open, just a fraction, and peeked outside. Her view was not the greatest, but she could see Potter, Weasley, and Granger standing outside the entrance, looking at something in Potter’s hands. Next to them, sitting on the floor and catching their breath, were two person-sized lumps, and Pansy could see Draco’s platinum blond hair among them. The Golden Trio of Gryffindors did not appear to be paying Draco and his companion any attention, which Pansy was happy to see. If the Gryffindors moved a little further out of the way, she might be able to sneak behind them and grab Draco.

While she was formulating her plan, there was a loud blast from somewhere to the side, and the Gryffindors ran toward it. _Perfect_ , Pansy thought. She started to step out of the portrait, but quickly had to draw back as the golden trio re-appeared, this time with two of Weasley’s brothers. Pansy noticed Draco standing up and poking the other body, which Pansy soon saw was Goyle. The two of them shuffled down the corridor and out of Pansy’s sight.

All five Gryffindors were aggressively waving their wands, which suggested that they were fighting with people out of her line of sight. _Okay_ , she thought to herself. _Maybe I can wait for them to move away again_. Another loud blast sounded, this time from somewhere behind her, and the idea of waiting was suddenly considerably less appealing. She decided to make a break for it, and hope the Gryffindors and whoever they were fighting would all be too preoccupied to notice her scuttling away behind them.

So she climbed out of the portrait and sprinted for the main corridor. As she got to the corner, one of the older Weasleys stepped back, yelling to the other one “You actually are joking, Perce!” Pansy knocked into the Weasley, and he whipped around and grabbed her arm.

Pansy pulled him two steps back before her brain computed that someone was grabbing her. She turned around and registered that it was one of the Weasley twins. Her eyes met his, and everything went still, for that tiny, barely significant moment.

“What the--” the Weasley said, sounding confused, surprised, and a little concerned. The sound of his voice brought her out of her trance. Wrenching her eyes away, she turned and saw Draco and Goyle staggering around the corner. She pulled her arm free from the Weasley’s grip and sprinted after them, not daring to yell their names in case she drew attention to herself. Just as she reached the corner, the entire corridor was blasted into smithereens, and the force of the explosion propelled Pansy forward. She landed, hard, and the world around her went black.

\--

Fred recognised her immediately. She was that Slytherin would-be-snitch; the one who wanted to throw Harry to You-Know-Who like a sacrificial lamb. Had she not been just about the last person he had expected to bump into at that moment, he would have had a few choice words for her, centred mainly around her cowardice and his unfavourable opinion on it. As it was, he was too surprised to say anything.

Their eyes met, and Fred, despite himself and the situation, found that he could not look away. He knew what this girl had just done, yet her eyes showed no evil, or malice, or even cowardice. Instead, they showed fear, and desperation, and, most surprisingly, remorse. She was sorry for her actions, and she has good as admitted that to him, in that half a second’s worth of eye contact.

Then she pulled her arm free and ran off. The noise around him seemed to come back on, and he was in the middle of the battle again.

Suddenly the corridor in front of him exploded, and as he felt the white-hot power of a lethal spell burn along his left arm, he and the others were thrown several feet backwards.

It was the pain in his arm, perhaps, that made him come to before the others. He looked to his left, and the sight alone was enough to make him want to faint. The skin was a raw, mottled combination of red and black. Some bits were peeled back, and other bits looked like the skin had been completely burned off. The pain, now that he was getting a fair idea about the extent of the damage, was unbelievable. He would not be surprised if he could never use that arm again.

Fred looked back, and he could see that the brunt of the spell had hit the corridor, just one or two paces from where he had been standing.

It could not be confirmed in any way, but Fred had a gut feeling about what he was seeing. He knew that if that Parkinson girl had not bumped into him and pulled him backwards, he would now be dead.

\--

_I shall wait for one hour in the Forbidden Forest … one hour …_

Fred ran into the Great Hall, Percy at his heels, and spotted the vibrant red hair of the rest of his family straight away. He ran towards them, flinging his good arm around his twin. He had never been a religious man and doubted he ever would be, but right then he was thanking God that George was alright.

“Mate,” his brother said, looking at his bad arm, “you need to see Madam Pomfrey. Right now.”

“No. Not yet. Others need her more than me.” Fred gestured around them, and, sure enough, there were no less than a dozen people on the ground, struggling to breathe. Fred knew that he might lose his arm, but if nothing else happened to him that evening, he would live.

“Ron!” he heard Percy exclaim. Looking up, he saw Ron and Hermione sprinting towards the family. Harry, Fred noticed, was hanging back, and Fred noticed his eyes landing on the unmoving bodies of Lupin and Tonks. He figured that Harry probably needed a moment, and turned back to his brothers.

“...and we passed Malfoy at one point,” Ron was saying. “A Death Eater was about to kill him, and he was begging him not to, saying he was on their side. Two-faced bastard. I’m surprised he didn’t go running off with the rest of them.”

“Some of them stayed behind,” Fred remarked, absentmindedly.

“Oh yeah?” George asked, glancing at his brother. “I haven’t seen anybody else.. Maybe they all got blasted and nobody’s bothered to go and get them.”

“Maybe…” Fred was not paying his brothers much attention now, as his mind went back to the explosion. _That Parkinson girl… there was no way she would not have been hit by it. And yet…_ Fred looked around, and there was no sign of her anywhere.

He did not know why he knew, but, somehow, he knew that she was still in that corridor.

“Be right back,” he said to his brothers, and he ran back through the Great Hall before any of them could stop him.

It was not easy to run up seven flights of stairs with a badly damaged arm, but he managed it. The seventh floor corridor (or what was left of it) was completely deserted, and he jogged down the length of it carefully, looking for any sign of her.

He was just about to turn the corner to the sight of the explosion when he noticed a dust-covered head of short, jet-black hair lying, face-down, on the ground. His heart skipped a beat, and the fear that she might not be alive flooded through him like a tidal wave. Not knowing why that thought caused him so much fear, but understanding that the fear was there all the same, he knelt beside her.

“Don’t be dead,” he whispered, pressing two fingers to the side of her neck. “Please don’t be dead…”

It took a couple of moments, and a lot more patience than Fred had at the best of times, but he did, eventually, feel a pulse. It was faint, but it was definitely there.

“Thank Merlin,” he said, pulling out his wand. He Levitated her to his waist level and carefully guided her back down to the Great Hall. Once there, he set the Parkinson girl down beside the other recovering bodies, conjured a pillow and blanket for her, and located Madam Pomfrey.

“I’ve brought you the Parkinson girl,” he said to the brisk, business-like matron.

Madam Pomfrey, who was wrapping a bandage around a dazed Ravenclaw student’s knee, looked up. “The Parkinson girl? Now is not the time for jokes, Weasley. Surely even you understand that?”

“Of course I do, and I’m not joking.” Fred pointed to the blanket-encased mound he had just created. “I think she must have snuck back into the school. I found her along the seventh floor corridor. She was knocked out by the blast that happened there a few hours ago, and I’m guessing nobody thought to look for her, since they all think she was with the other Slytherins.”

“Hmm.” Pomfrey stood up and strode over to the blanket. Upon seeing the Parkinson girl’s face, her eyes visibly widened.

“My apologies for doubting you, Weasley. Thank you for finding her.”

The matron knelt beside the young brunette witch and waved her wand over her.

“Will she be alright?” Fred asked.

Madam Pomfrey nodded. “I think so, although it might take her a day or so to wake up. I’ll keep her in the hospital wing until then. Do you want me to tell her who brought her here?”

One corner of Fred’s mouth turned up in a wry grin. “You’d better not. I think she’d be mortified to discover that her saviour is a Gryffindor. And a Weasley, at that.”

Madam Pomfrey rolled her eyes. “Honestly, you kids and your House rivalries. Suit yourself.”

Fred nodded, and made his exit before Madam Pomfrey had a chance to notice his arm. Despite it still being a war, he felt an enormous sense of relief. She was going to be alright. Fred could not say why, but that thought gave him hope.

“Fred!”

Fred was startled out of his reverie by George and Ron, both of whom were running towards him.

“Yeah?”

“We can’t find Harry.”

“Oh, bollocks.”

~*~

Pansy woke up many hours later, and the first thing she noticed was that she was in the Hospital Wing. She had never been a patient in the Hospital Wing before. The first thing that struck her was how much more comfortable the beds were here than those horrible rubber-on-wooden-plank numbers they had at St Mungo’s.

“Ahh, Parkinson.” Pansy looked up to see the serious face of Madam Pomfrey looking down at her. “You’re awake. Excellent.”

“Yeah, I…” Pansy remembered, with a panicked jolt, where she had been and what she had been doing before she lost consciousness. “Oh, sweet Salazar! The war! The battle! What happened?”

“Shhh. Try to relax.” Madam Pomfrey indicated a block of chocolate on Pansy’s bedside table. “You’ll be eating all of that in a moment. But, yes, the battle is over. You-Know-Who has been defeated.”

“De… defeated?” Pansy repeated. She could hardly believe it. Ever since the Dark Lord had risen, she had been almost entirely certain that he would eventually take over the Wizarding World. At first, she was keen on the idea. It was about time, she thought, that Mudbloods and Blood Traitors were put in their place. But, over the past few years, as the Dark Lord grew more powerful, the world around her grew darker, her mother grew sicker, her father grew angrier, and she and her friends enjoyed fewer laughs, her thoughts on a world ruled by the Dark Lord started to change.

Now that he was gone, she felt none of the anguish or loss she thought she would feel. In fact, more than anything else, she felt relieved.

“That’s correct,” Madam Pomfrey said, bringing Pansy out of her reverie. “Unfortunately, I do not know most of the details, but I’m sure your peers will fill you in when you’re free to go home.”

“My peers…” Pansy repeated. “Do you know what happened to Draco, Madam Pomfrey?”

“Draco Malfoy?” Madam Pomfrey asked. “I believe he and his parents escaped before the battle was over.”

“I see.” Pansy frowned. “But, he must have come back for me. Nobody else would have brought me to the Hospital Wing.”

Pomfrey raised an eyebrow at her patient. “It was not Mr Malfoy who found you.”

“Really? Who was it?”

“They asked me not to say,” Madam Pomfrey answered, and Pansy could have sworn she saw a twinkle of amusement in the matron’s eye. “I can tell you that it was a former student, however. A Gryffindor.”

“A Gryffindor? Are you serious?” Pansy could not have been more surprised if Madam Pomfrey had told her that the Giant Squid had rescued her. “But, why? Surely they must all hate me, after what I did.”

“You mean your little moment in the Great Hall?” Pomfrey asked. “I would like to believe that most people will recognise that as a short moment of panic on your part. And even if they do not, somebody evidently saw enough good in you to think that you were worth saving.”

Pansy did not respond to that. She could not think of anything adequate to say.

~*~


	2. Four Years of Pans, Pots, Mugs, and Spoons

**~22nd August, 2002~**

“Good morning, madam. Please allow me to sing you awake with this soothing melody.”

Pansy, having woken up as soon as the voice started speaking, proceeded to bury her head under her pillow, pressing both sides of it against her ears. She had had this talking alarm clock for close to two years, now, and it had yet to sing her a wake-up song that could even remotely be described as ‘soothing’.

And, sure enough, “I DOOOOOOON’T WAAAANT MY FREEEEEEEDOM, THERE’S NO REEEEEEASON FOR LIIIIIIIIIIVING, with a broken heart…”

“Sweet Merlin,” Pansy muttered, sitting up and slapping the clock into silence before it could burst into the next section of Queen’s ‘It’s a Hard Life’. The clock had been a gift from her housemate, given to her under the pretext of wanting her to appreciate more classic Muggle rock music. In actuality, Pansy had to assume that said housemate had a death wish. He surely would have known that, for every morning the clock screeched her awake with Aerosmith or ACDC, she would spend at least the following ten minutes complating how she might murder her housemate in his sleep.

“Pansy!” A loud knock sounded on the bedroom door. “You’re awake, right? I heard your clock.”

“What the bloody hell do you think?”

The door opened, and George Weasley stood within its frame, grinning stupidly and as though he had no idea at all that Pansy wished him a long, painful death at that moment.

“Cursing, Pans? That’s not like you.”

“Like I keep telling you, it only leaves my head when I’m really annoyed.”

“Aww, that doesn’t sound remotely threatening.” George’s grin widened, if that were possible. “I need to do inventory this morning, so you’ll be on the shop floor by yourself. That alright?”

“Didn’t we have this conversation last night?” Pansy staggered out of bed and looked blearily around for her wand.

“We did, but I spent part of the evening remembering a really funny fart joke I heard the other day, so I didn’t hear your answer.”

Pansy sighed. “For the love of... yes, I’m fine on the shop floor by myself. Now, fuck off and let me shower.”

George raised his hands in surrender. “Please, Pans. You swearing hurts my delicate sensibilities. I was just about to offer you waffles and coffee for breakfast, but I don’t think I’ll bother now.”

Pansy groaned. “How come you’re never ‘just about’ to make me waffles and coffee when I’m being nice to you?”

“No idea. Must be a coincidence.” George flashed her one more jaunty grin before closing the door. Pansy clucked her tongue and asked herself, not for the first time, why she bothered putting up with him.

Of course, it was a redundant question, as she knew perfectly well why she put up with George Weasley and his antics. It was because, if she were to tell the truth, she loved it.

Not that she would ever be telling him that.

\--

To anybody who knew Pansy’s relationship with the assorted Weasleys while they were at Hogwarts together, the fact that she and George were now roommates would be a monumental shock. It was the result of a series of developments that were strange enough in isolation, and managed to come together and create a life that Pansy’s younger self would have found bizarre at best, and downright horrifying at worst.

Which just went to show how drastically people can change in relatively short spaces of time.

It all started with the aftermath of the war. It came as no surprise to Pansy that she and the rest of her Slytherin brethren were treated poorly in the months immediately following the Battle of Hogwarts. She could hardly blame the Wizarding community for their attitudes; she had been prejudiced against most of them ever since she was old enough to have opinions, and the only bad thing the people she was prejudiced against had done was be poor or have Muggle blood in their lineage. At least she was hated because of something she had actually, tangibly, done.

As badly as she was being treated by society at large, she believed that Draco and her other Slytherin friends would remain by her side. They were Slytherins, after all, and Slytherins were usually loyal to their kind. Not as loyal as Hufflepuffs, admittedly, but loyal enough.

At least, that was what she had thought. So it was an upsetting shock when Draco declared that he, and the rest of the group, would no longer be associating with her.

“I’m sorry,” Pansy had said, shaking her head in a vain effort to derive a different meaning from Draco’s words, “what?”

“I said, we are severing all ties from you,” Draco repeated. “You’re too much of a liability. The rest of us can say that we didn’t directly do anything during the Battle, and there is enough doubt for us to be treated cordially. You, on the other hand, said that Potter should be handed over to the Dark Lord, in front hundreds of wizards and witches. Nobody’s going to forgive you for that, and when we are with you, we get treated like rubbish as well.”

Pansy, to her horror, found that she was now blinking back tears. “So, what? I make one mistake, and you’re throwing me out? After all the times I supported you, and lied for you, and defended you, I’m now just a thorn in your side?”

Draco shrugged. “The past is the past, and I am not ungrateful to you. But we all need to move forward, and we can’t do that if you’re with us. I’m sorry.”

Pansy told Draco exactly where he could shove his ‘sorry’, stamped on his foot on her way out, and, when she got home, set fire to her Draco Detection Doll. It was childish behaviour, she knew, but even her Pureblood upbringing was not enough for her to keep anger that all-encompassing contained.

Once the anger had subsided, Pansy spent several weeks in a strange, emotionless fog. She stayed in her London flat, sleeping far more than was necessary, eating far less than was necessary, and looking out the window. She kept thinking about that moment in the Great Hall. She remembered the fear, and the panic. She remembered thinking that there was no way any of them could get out of there alive, unless they did as the Dark Lord asked. A few seconds of desperate belief that the Dark Lord would be true to his word, and she had ruined everything for herself.

She then remembered the discomfort she felt immediately afterwards, as Potter stared at her in disbelief, and almost all of their classmates raised their wands at her, their faces showing everything from horror, to anger, to disappointment. The discomfort became remorse as soon as she was escorted out of the Great Hall, and remorse was what she continued to feel now, months after the fact.

Lastly, she remembered what Madam Pomfrey had told her in the hospital wing. A nameless Gryffindor had saved her. She had suggested that the Gryffindor Golden Boy be taken to the Dark Lord, and _still_ , a Gryffindor had saved her. That fact spoke to her more than anything else. It suggested that somebody out there believed she could change. And yet she hadn’t changed. She hadn’t even tried to change. Not yet.

Eventually, she decided that enough was enough, and she needed to do take action. She could not thank the nameless Gryffindor for saving her, which is what she wanted to do most. But there was one thing that she could absolutely do, and once she got the idea of it in her head, she knew it would not be coming out until she gritted her teeth and did it.

She took the Floo to the Ministry of Magic, and was led through to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. There, sitting at a cubicle and reading through what looked like an incredibly boring piece of legislature, was the saviour of the Wizarding World himself.

Apparently even saviours had to do their share of grunt work.

“Parkinson?” Potter raised his eyebrows in confusion. “What in Merlin’s name are you doing here?”

Pansy cleared her throat. What she was about to do went to against her nature as a Slytherin and a member of the Pureblood Aristocracy. She was more nervous than she cared to admit, and a large part of her wished she could have hired somebody to do this for her.

But no part of her was saying that this was wrong, or that she should not have to do it. That, more than anything else, confirmed in Pansy’s mind that she was where she was meant to be.

“I’m here,” she said, “to apologise for what I did, before the Battle of Hogwarts. I was frightened, and I was panicking, and I know that is no excuse. So… I’m sorry.”

Potter did not say anything. Pansy was not entirely surprised. It was not every day that somebody who was horrible to you in school came forward and apologised for their worst crime against you. He was probably just trying to take it all in.

Since he had not responded, Pansy figured she might as well kill two birds with one stone and tell Potter the rest of what she was thinking.

“I’m… deeply grateful…,” she continued, “for what you’ve done. You saved us all from being ruled by a monster of a… was he even a person, in the end? I don’t know. But he would have turned our wonderful world into a terrible place, if it hadn’t been for you. I… I know I was pretty horrible to you and your friends, and that I mocked you for your fame and all the silly titles the Daily Prophet saw fit to give you, but believe me, Potter. If anybody deserves those titles, it’s you.”

Potter continued to say nothing, leading Pansy to wonder, for a brief second, if she had somehow stunned him into silence. After standing in awkward silence for a moment longer, Pansy concluded that Potter was not going to say anything, and she should probably just go. She had said her piece, after all.

“Well, er, that was all. I’ll show myself out.”

She turned and started for the exit, when a hoarse voice stopped her.

“Parkinson, wait.”

She turned back around. Potter had risen from his seat and was striding towards her. Before she had the good sense to ask him what on earth he was doing, he had enveloped her in his arms.

Pansy could have counted on one hand the number of times she had been hugged before that moment, by anybody who was not her mother. It was not something that was usually done in Pureblood society, since displaying any emotion that even closely resembled affection was considered uncouth. That said, she had to admit that hugs were quite pleasant.

“I forgive you,” Potter whispered to her, and Pansy, to her mortification, felt a hard lump develop in her throat, “and you’re welcome.”

Pansy and Potter had not been alone in that room, and since Potter had performed an action more noteworthy than breathing or enjoying a pint (although Pansy was pretty sure she had read a Daily Prophet expose entitled ‘Is the Saviour a Butterbeer or a Firewhiskey Drinker?’ at one point), the news of their hug was all over the Prophet’s front pages the next day. Pansy, who no longer bothered to read the Prophet, did not know this until an owl arrived for her at midday, with a rolled up copy of the newspaper and a small piece of parchment that said, in cramped, messy handwriting that Pansy had to assume was Potter’s, “I think this captures your best side.”

The photo, she noticed, only showed the back of Pansy’s head. She let out a shout of laughter, which marked the first time she had laughed since before the Battle of Hogwarts. Turning the parchment scrap over, she wrote back, “to be fair, my hair was behaving very well yesterday”, and presented it to the owl, who came back twenty minutes later with a new sheet of parchment that said “I don’t know - there was definitely one strand, about a third of the way along from the left, that looked out of place.”

Pansy laughed again, and the two of them exchanged half a dozen more letters throughout the day. It was strange, she had to admit, but it felt as though she and Potter could become friends. And Merlin knew she could use a friend.

She fell asleep that evening with a smile on her face, but her contentment was short-lived. Several hours later, she woke up to the smell of burning.

“What on…?” she started to mutter to herself, before loud coughs erupted out of her own mouth. She scrambled out of bed and started towards the window, but was stopped by a large, flaming projectile that flew through said window, smashing the glass and narrowly missing Pansy as she jumped out of its way.

The projectile landed on Pansy’s carpeted floor, which caught fire so quickly that there was nothing Pansy could have done to stop it. She grabbed her wand and cried “ _Aguamenti!_ ”, but she might as well have been flicking a wet paintbrush at the fire for all the good it did.

“Shit,” Pansy muttered, her heart racing as more of the hot, smoky air made its way into her lungs. Covering her nose with her hand as she started coughing anew, she wrenched open her bedroom door and raced down the stairs. She made it down there only to discover similar fires in front of her front and kitchen doors. She raced toward the kitchen door anyway, thinking that she had to at least try to get out. But the flames seemed to grow larger and hotter as she approached the door, almost as though they were consciously trying to prevent her from leaving.

Despite knowing that it was the worst thing she could do at a time like this, Pansy started to panic. The fire was everywhere, and she could not escape. She was rubbish at Apparition at the best of times, and trying to Apparate in a state of panic from a burning house would probably kill her instantly. She glanced at her fireplace, which she had not yet registered with the Floo network, so she could not escape through there either. But, if she remembered correctly, any standard fireplace can be used to make emergency Floo calls.

It was her last hope. As the flames closed in around her, she threw herself in front of the fireplace, sprinkled Floo powder from a nearby pot onto the logs, shoved her head inside, and gasped out “Ministry of Magic, Emergency Department.”

“Hello?” The young man on the midnight shift came into Pansy’s view. “What’s the emergency?”

“My house,” Pansy said, each word punctuated by loud coughing. “It’s on fire. I can’t get out. Please… help…”

“Ma’am?” said the young man, but Pansy did not hear him. The heat of the flames and the sooty air were overwhelming her, and she could feel herself slipping into unconsciousness.

But then, less than a minute later, there was an enormous BANG from her kitchen door. Pansy felt sure that she was imaging it, but it looked like the flames moved apart of their own accord, and a large body, kitted out in some sort of hazard suit, walked through the door and approached her. Without a word, the body covered her in a large, damp blanket, lifted her up, and strode back through the parted flames. The next thing Pansy knew, she was in her tiny back garden, and breathing in cool, clean, outdoor air.

Pansy heaved, and she was placed carefully on the ground just in time for her to collapse onto her knees and throw up her dinner. Everything tasted like smoke and bile, and she could still see the flames dancing in front of her squeezed-shut eyes. She could still feel the heat of the flames on her skin and the grittiness of the soot in her eyes. There was still fire, and it was everywhere.

When her stomach was empty of all its contents, Pansy shuffled several steps away and rested her forehead against the dewy grass. The cold, damp feeling brought her back to the present. She opened her eyes, and could make out two or three individual blades of grass. She forced herself to look at the little green spikes, noting how fresh, and green, and alive they were. It was better to focus on something inane than to contemplate the flaming mass that had been her home.

After a couple of seconds, a couple of moments, or, perhaps, several darkened days, she felt a large, gentle hand on her back..

“Parkinson?” came a male voice.

The familiarity of it gave her pause. If the situation had been not been insane enough before, the sound of that voice unquestionably sealed the deal.

“Weasley?”

She lifted her head up a fraction, and, sure enough, Ron Weasley’s familiar face greeted her. He had taken off the helmet and gloves of his weird suit, and was now kneeling beside her. Although she had seen that face many times in the past seven years, she had rarely seen it arranged into an expression of concern, and she certainly had never seen that concern being directed at her.

“Easy, now,” Weasley said, his voice soft and soothing as he placed his other large hand on her shoulder. “Can you sit up for me?”

Seven years of practiced Gryffindor-hating had trained her to deny any request made to her by a Weasley, no matter how ridiculous the act of denying the request might be. But all of that history flew out the window with Ron Weasley’s concerned touch. Pansy followed the guidance his hands provided, and rose to a kneeling position.

“How…” she croaked out. “How did you find me?”

“The Emergency Department,” Weasley explained. “There’s always an Auror on-call for them, and that was me, tonight. Wilkins, the receptionist, gave me your address, and I threw on the firesuit and Apparated over. Back-up has just arrived. See?”

Pansy looked towards the house, and, sure enough, there were several wizards in uniform standing around it and pointing their wands. She wondered if they had worked out that _Aguamenti_ wouldn’t work.

The sight of the flames quickly became too much, and Pansy turned back toward Weasley, shielding her eyes. Weasley was continuing to look at her as though worried she might break. In all fairness to him, it was a fair thing to be worried about, right then.

There were so many questions to ask. How did the fire happen? Why couldn’t she get out? Why didn’t _Aguamenti_ work against it? How come the flames parted for him? What even was this ‘firesuit’ that he was wearing? And yet the question she went for was comparatively unimportant.

Or, at least, it was at the time.

“Why did you come for me? After everything I did to you at Hogwarts, why would you help me?”

If Weasley thought the question inappropriate, he did not show it. He instead offered her a grim smile, and his grip on her shoulder tightened a fraction.

“It’s part of my job, for one thing. But even if it weren’t, Harry told me what you did yesterday. It means a lot to him, to have somebody admit they treated him badly. And, so, it means a lot to me, too. That took guts, Parkinson. Maybe you’ve got some Gryffindor in you.”

“Oh, Merlin, I think I’m going to be sick again,” Pansy groaned.

Weasley laughed at that, and the sound was so inappropriate for the situation that Pansy had to chuckle as well.

“First thing’s first,” Weasley said, once they had both quietened again. “You need somewhere to stay tonight. You got family?”

Pansy shook her head. “My family’s… well, my mother’s dead and my father… might as well be.”

Weasley did not respond to that. He did not need to. Rose Parkinson had been a famous figure in Wizarding society, and her death during their fourth year had been well-publicised. Harold Parkinson, by contrast, had become an infamous figure when he rejoined the Death Eaters just months after Rose’s death, and in direct opposition to her wishes. He was captured during the Battle of Hogwarts, and his crimes were too extensive and destructive for him to receive any sentence other than life in Azkaban and enough fines to be rendered all but bankrupt. The little that remained had been transferred to Pansy, and she knew that it would not last her too much longer. Especially after this.

“How about friends, then?” Weasley asked. “Surely Malfoy has a room to spare in that bloody great mansion of his?”

“I…” Pansy nearly choked on her own tongue. Once Weasley had started talking to her, Pansy was processing everything around her with a curious sort of detachment, as though it were all happening through a thick glass barrier. But Weasley casually mentioning Draco and his ‘bloody great mansion’ caused the barrier to disappear. She had no close family, the entire Wizarding community hated her, most of her possessions were going up in flames, and she had lost the one thing she had taken for granted as always being there: her friends.

That was when the tears started to fall.

“Hey, hey,” Weasley whispered, “it’s okay.”

“N-no,” Pansy argued, circling her arms around herself. “No, it’s not. It’s… I have no-one. My family’s gone, and my… my friends. Draco… they don’t want me around anymore, because of what I did to Potter… I’m alone.”

She closed her eyes and rocked back and forth. She had not felt this hopeless since her mother died, and at least then she had had her friends. Now, there was nobody, and she had no idea how she going to be able to pick herself up again.

But then, she felt arms. Long, gangly, weird-suit-encased arms, circling around her and pulling her, gently, against an equally weird-suit-encased chest. This was the second Gryffindor-initiated hug she had received in as many days, and she could not deny that it was very welcome.

“You’re not alone,” Weasley said, quietly but firmly. “I’m here. We’ll get you through this. Together.”

Weasley took Pansy to St Mungo’s, and stayed with her for the rest of the night while her throat and lungs were checked for smoke and fire damage, whether magical or non-magical in nature. Thankfully, she appeared to be in the clear, although the thought of being near fire again made her heart race.

Weasley then took her to the small house he shared with Hermione Granger. Granger, who was awake and alert despite it being 5:30 in the morning, ordered both of them to sit down, placed a full teapot and two mugs on the table in front of them, and asked Pansy if she preferred her toast lightly browned or “Ron’s preference, which I like to call, “practically charcoal”. Pansy meekly requested the former option, and Granger nodded before turning back to the all-important task of preparing breakfast, while Weasley asked her how many spoons of sugar she took in her tea.

Just as Granger placed three plates of scrambled eggs and toast on the table, Pansy heard the distinct _pop_ of Apparition. Two seconds later, Harry Potter walked in.

“Pansy!” he said, rushing up and throwing his arms around her, thus making it three hugs in as many days. “I’m so glad you’re alright.”

“Th… thank you, Potter,” she said, awkwardly placing her hands on his shoulders. She was enjoying all the hugging, but she could hardly claim to be an expert on the practice.

“Call me Harry,” Potter insisted, straightening up and accepting the mug that Granger pressed into his hands. “Seeing how you’ll probably be seeing a lot of me in the next few weeks.”

“Good point,” Ron mumbled through a mouthful of eggs. “Bearing that in mind, you might want to start calling us ‘Ron’ and ‘Hermione’ as well… Pansy.”

They had not been wrong. During the next few weeks, Pansy was brought into the Ministry no less than four times for questioning. Eventually, the Aurors and the Magical Fire Department concluded that Fiendfyre had been utilised, and it had been charmed to either intensify or relax, depending on a nearby witch or wizard’s magical signature. That explained why the fire kept Pansy in, while allowing Ron through.

There were only a handful of witches and wizards in Britain gifted enough in fire-related charmwork to create such controlled and well-executed Fiendfyre, and the only one not currently in Azkaban was Elsa Abrams; a Muggleborn witch who had spent the past few years in hiding. Although she had never been involved in wand-to-wand combat during the war, she had recently contributed several opinion pieces to the Daily Prophet detailing how all of wizardkind owed Harry Potter a life debt, and that perhaps his greatest accomplishment was not defeating You-Know-Who, but putting those ‘lying, deceitful, good-for-nothing Slytherins and Death Eaters’ in their place.

After locating Ms Abrams and bringing her in, it only took the Aurors about fifteen minutes to get a confession out of her. Indeed, her confession was boastful. She had seen Harry hugging Pansy in the Daily Prophet earlier that day, and could not stand the idea of Pansy, or anybody even vaguely associated with You-Know-Who, receiving Harry’s sympathy. So she and a couple of like-minded friends got together and formulated a plan to burn Pansy’s house to the ground, and, hopefully, kill Pansy in the process.

When she was asked why she had gone to all the trouble of using the Fiendfyre, when a simple Killing Curse would have been both easier and far less risky, Abrams gave the investigative Auror a sly smile and said, “because the Killing Curse does not hurt, and Miss Parkinson deserves nothing less than to suffer. Harry Potter may have forgiven her, but I do not, and I never will. She will burn. If not here, then in Hell.”

Although Pansy was no stranger to other people hating her, she had had to imbibe several double shots of Firewhiskey after hearing that confession.

Abrams was sentenced to Life in Azkaban for unpermitted use of a deadly curse. Hermione, who knew enough about Wizarding law to act as Pansy’s legal defence, asked the Wizengamot why the sentence was based on Abrams’ use of the curse, and not on the fact that she very nearly succeeded in killing an innocent witch. She had received no direct response for that, but Pansy noted that some members of the Wizengamot looked a little sheepish.

The message was loud and clear: as a Slytherin/relative of a known Death Eater, the potential loss of her life was not considered important enough to be part of the sentence. Funnily enough, though, Pansy could not say she minded. She probably would have minded, before the end of the war, when all she wanted was to be known, loved, and adored as much as her mother once was. But at the moment of Abrams’ sentencing, she felt like she had enough, because she now had Harry, Ron, and Hermione.

Ron and Hermione insisted that Pansy stay in their spare room while she sorted out her finances and future plans. She ended up staying for three months; time that Pansy would come to treasure for the opportunity it gave her to learn about two people she had grossly misjudged.

When she had been with them at Hogwarts, her impression was that Hermione Granger was a persistent know-it-all and Ron Weasley was as thick as a troll with a head injury. As it turned out, however, she had never before been so wrong about two people in all her days.

Hermione, while very smart, was actually kind of hopeless in some ways, and perfectly happy to admit it. She was appallingly bad at strategising, which made her a pretty poor chess player. She also was not good at thinking on her feet, or improvising. Most surprisingly to Pansy, she had terrible trouble empathising with others.

“Ron nags me about it all the time,” Hermione told Pansy one morning, a week or so after the trial. “He says that I’m rubbish at understanding that other people have different viewpoints to me.”

“And yet you’re training to be a mind Healer?” Pansy asked.

Hermione grinned. “That’s because I’m fascinated by how the magical mind works. There’s a good chance that I’ll get too bogged down with my own logic and reason to be able to help patients, and have to go more into research, but I’d probably prefer that. Ron’s the empath of the two of us. Can you pass me those mugs?”

Pansy grabbed the three dirty mugs on the other side of the counter and handed them over. “You know, members of the aristocracy would not be caught dead drinking tea out of those.”

“Well,” said Hermione, waving her wand at the sink, “it’s a good thing I’m Mudblood scum then, isn’t it? Because I like mugs. They’re less breakable than those silly little china cups, and you can hold more in them.”

Pansy let out a huff of amusement. “I think you mean, you love mugs because you’re MUGgleborn.”

Hermione groaned. “That’s dreadful.”

“You’re saying ‘brilliant’ incorrectly,” Pansy bantered back. “In fact, it’s so brilliant, that I’ll be calling you ‘Mugs’ from now on.”

“Fine then… Pans.”

The two of them froze, and then turned to each other in delight.

“Oh Merlin, that’s perfect!” Hermione exclaimed. “And Harry can be ‘Pots’, because of his last name.”

“Yes!” Pansy agreed. “But what about Ron?”

Hermione frowned, thinking about it. “I don’t know yet. But I’m sure we’ll think of something.”

Speaking of Ron, Pansy’s assumption that he was dense was, if possible, even less true than her assumption that Hermione was a Know-it-all. In his own way, Ron was… kind of brilliant, and his relationship with Hermione demonstrated why ‘opposites attract’ was a phrase with some merit behind it. He was great at strategising (which made him a fantastic chess player), he was good at improvising (despite claiming that he wasn’t a good cook, for example, he had a bizarre knack for being able to throw random ingredients together and make something pretty damn tasty), and, perhaps most crucially, he could empathise with people. That was the most surprising thing of all.

The day after Pansy and Hermione had had their Mugs and Pans conversation, Pansy was sitting in the kitchen, reading, when she heard a loud _whoosh_ sound. She turned towards the sound, and saw bright green flames erupting from the fireplace.

It was the first time she had been so close to fire since she had been rescued. Before she could even think to stop it, she felt a wave of fear rush through her her body. She felt too hot, and like she was trapped, and like she needed to run away. Her heart was racing, and she started breathing more quickly, yet it felt like not enough air was getting into her lungs.

The flames died down, and Ron stepped out of the fireplace.

“Hey,” he said, casually brushing soot off his sleeve. When Pansy did not respond, he took a better look at her. She did not think she would appear any different than usual, but he immediately dropped his briefcase and knelt in front of her.

“Hey, hey,” he said, placing one hand on each side of her face. “Listen to me. Don’t do anything else. Just listen to me. Can you do that?”

Pansy didn’t fully hear him. Her ears were almost full with the sound of her beating pulse. But she heard him well enough to understand his instructions. She nodded.

“Okay.” He pressed his forehead against hers. It felt warm, but not unpleasantly so. “I’m going to count to four, and I want you to breathe in while I count. Then I’m going to count to eight, and I want you to breathe out. Can you do that?”

Counting. Numbers. Pansy could do that. She nodded again.

“Okay. Here we go. One… two… three… four…”

Ron guided her through three rounds of counted breathing. When it was over, he slowly pulled away from her, and, to her surprise, she felt a little bit calmer.

“I’m sorry,” Ron said.

Pansy blinked. She had not been expecting him to say that. “What on earth for?”

Ron indicated the fireplace. “I was knackered, and I thought it wouldn’t be safe for me to Apparate. So I decided to Floo in instead. And I forgot that fire is something you might not want to see.”

Pansy blinked again, and glanced back at the fireplace. She could not have predicted that the sight of fire would make her panic like that. After all, she had seen fires many times in the past, and never given them any thought.

“It looks like Elsa Abrams got part of her wish,” Ron commented.

“What do you mean?” Pansy asked.

“She wanted you to suffer. And if the sight of fire makes you panic now, well… that’s a lot of suffering, isn’t it?”

Pansy mulled Ron’s words over, and her heart sank. Because he was right. They were witches and wizards; they used fire for everything. But, right then, the thought of fire alone made it difficult for her to breathe.

“Oh, Merlin, no.” She covered her face with her hands. “What am I going to do?”

Ron sat beside her on the couch and placed a hand on her back, just like he had when he pulled her out her burning house. And, just like then, the gentle weight of it seemed to soothe her.

“It could be hard,” Ron said. Grim though the sentiment was, Pansy appreciated his honesty. “It might be a long time before things feel normal again. But you’re pretty mighty, Pans. You’ll soldier on. I know it.”

Pansy smiled, and gave Ron a gentle nudge. “Thanks, Ron. I hope you’re right.”

“I am,” he assured her, “and anyway, I’ll be here to help you along.”

“Thanks.”

“Ron?” Both of them looked up at the sound of Hermione’s voice. “Could you stop flirting with Pansy and get in here? I’ve already told you she’s way too good-looking to be interested.”

“Bloody woman has no faith in me,” Ron said, rolling his eyes as he stood up. “I could totally get myself a hottie like you if I turned on the ol’ Weasley charm.”

“I don’t know,” Pansy said, putting on her most quizzical face. “I’d say that Hermione is more my type than you are.”

Ron considered Pansy’s words for a moment. “Hmm,” he finally said, “I can’t blame you there.”

He left the room at that point, no doubt preparing to catch Hermione as she leapt into his arms to kiss him good evening.

Pansy heard nothing for a couple of moments, but then Hermione’s voice came through, sounding its most reprimanding as she said “also, if you’re going to eat straight out of the jam jar, could you at least clean the spoons afterwards? There were three in the sink when I got home.”

Pansy let out another chuckle. Ron and his jam-stealing spoons, she thought.

Then she gasped, as the pieces of the puzzle fell into place. “Of course,” she murmured to herself. “His nickname has to be ‘Spoons’.”

In the remaining month that Pansy spent with Ron and Hermione, Pansy took stock of her possessions (most were burned in the fire, but she had some useful essentials in her Gringotts vault), found out how much money she had to her name (not much), and realised that she needed to be bringing in some sort of income if she wanted to live independently again.

“What are you good at?” Harry asked her one Saturday evening. He and Ginny (who Pansy got along with very well) were over for dinner, and Pansy, under Ron’s guidance, had prepared a pork roast.

“Nothing,” Pansy answered immediately. She wasn’t a particularly modest person, she didn’t think. But her father had always made it clear to her that she was not a young woman of remarkable talent.

“Well, that’s bollocks,” Ginny responded, taking the plate Hermione offered her. “Everybody’s good at something.”

“That’s the most Hufflepuff thing I think I’ve ever heard in my life,” Pansy said, taking a seat next to her. “And I’m including that time I heard one say that they thought plants were as precious as people.”

Ginny rolled her eyes. “Be as flippant as you want about it, but it’s true. Even Ron’s good at chess and cooking and Auroring and shit.”

Pansy frowned at the man she had started to think of as her best friend. “I can’t work out if she was insulting you or giving you a compliment.”

“Both, I think,” Ron clarified. “I agree with her, though. Everybody’s good at something, and in your case, it’s bound to be something impressive. What was your best subject at Hogwarts?”

Pansy did not have to think about it. “Charms. I used to embed charms into objects for a laugh.”

“Really?” Hermione, who Pansy had begun thinking of as her female confidant, asked. “I’ve never seen much point in putting magic into things, unless it serves a purpose. Those teapots you can get that pour the tea for you, for instance. Why? Are witches and wizards so lazy that they can’t be bothered pouring their own tea?”

“Maybe,” Ron said, shrugging. “Or maybe the charm was made for people who don’t have arms.”

Hermione considered that for a moment, before nodding. “Good point. But anyway, that’s off-topic. What sort of things did you do, Pans?”

Pansy considered the question. “One year for my mother’s birthday, I charmed her teacups so the flowers on them bloomed whenever there was hot liquid inside them. Then the flowers would wilt as the liquid cooled down.”

Harry, who Pansy thought of as her Slytherin-ish conspirator, looked excited. “That’s so nifty. I’d buy a set of those.”

“Same,” Hermione agreed. “I mean, if they weren’t silly little china cups that only hold one mouthful of liquid.”

“Those cups were gorgeous, I’ll have you know.” Pansy continued to think about some of her less orthodox charmwork. “Oh, I laced Draco’s shampoo with a Mood Detection Charm, once.”

“What did that do?” Ginny asked.

“Made his hair change colour.”

Ron, who had been in the middle of sipping from his glass of Butterbeer, nearly choked on it.

“N- no way!” he eventually choked out. “So, what? He was walking around with bright pink hair?”

“No, pink was the colour for ‘in love’, and Draco is not a loving person. Most of the time his hair was a sort of reddish-brown colour.”

“What did that mean?” Harry asked.

“Red meant he was angry, and brown suggested he was gassy. I think Blaise had forced him to eat a curry the night before.”

The conversation had to pause for several moments, as everybody was laughing too hard.

“Oh, speaking of Draco,” Pansy continued, once the laughter had died down. “There was the Detection Doll, as well.”

“‘Detection Doll’?” Hermione repeated.

“Mmm. It’s a little embarrassing, but when we were fifteen and I was besotted with him, I took a couple of his hairs and put them inside a little wooden doll. I then charmed the doll with a Tracking Spell, and a Voice Command Spell, so it would only work when I gave the password.”

“What was the password?” Ginny asked.

Pansy sighed. “It was, ‘where’s my Drakie-poo?’”

Ginny collapsed in hysterical laughter, to the point where she had to excuse herself in order to not wet herself.

Hermione, on the other hand, was thoughtful. “Did it work?”

“Oh yes,” Pansy said, nodding. “Very well. It took me to him whenever I asked it to… unless he was somewhere Unplottable, of course.”

Hermione nodded, slowly. “That’s… pretty brilliant, actually.”

“You think so?”

“Um, yeah!” Ron agreed. “I mean, I wouldn’t say you should mass-produce those, because they’re a bit creepy. No offence, Pans.”

“None taken.”

“But ideas like that are super clever, and not the sort of thing I think any of us could come up with. In fact, the only other people I know who have ideas like that are…” Ron trailed off, but his eyes lit up with excitement.

“Spoons?” Pansy frowned at him. “You okay?”

“Merlin’s Beard, this could be brilliant. Gin!”

“I’m on the shitter!”

“We know! Also, you’re disgusting!”

Harry, Hermione, and Pansy all put their forks down.

“Is George still looking for someone?” Ron continued to yell.

“I think so! Why?”

“Pans,” Ron said, turning back to her. “I’m going to introduce you to my brother.”

Hermione and Harry, quickly catching on, looked over at Pansy with excited grins. That was how Ginny found them all when she returned a moment later.

“Okay…,” she said, looking around. “Well, if any of you think you’re going to crap your pants, I suggest you hold your breath before going in there.”

The next day, Pansy met George Weasley, properly, for the first time. She gave him a basic rundown of the sort of items she used to make, and the older Weasley’s eyes lit up like his brother’s. When she was done, George asked her when she could start, and if she would like to move into one of his spare bedrooms.

“One of them?” Pansy echoed. She had seen the space above the shop from the outside, and it looked like there was barely enough room for a bedsit.

“Yeah. I have about five, now, I think.” George stood up and beckoned her to follow him. “I do renovations in here when I’m bored and have a bit of spare cash for supplies. But when Fred moved out I thought I’d treat myself to a big refurbishment, so it’s looking pretty stonking right now, if I do say so myself. Come take a look.”

Pansy followed him up the narrow staircase, and the home that greeted her was indeed, to use George’s word, stonking. He had evidently used Extension Charms on the space, because the floors around her were large and spacious. Intricate Lighting Charms, meanwhile, made the space feel open and breathable, unlike the manors of her youth that, despite their spaciousness, were always reliably dark and gloomy. During George’s tour, Pansy counted six bedrooms, three bathrooms, a living room, a laboratory (“think of that as the study” George quipped) and what George dubbed the centrepiece of the home; an enormous combination kitchen/dining room, with plenty of counter space, a large, wooden kitchen table, and a large, (thankfully) unlit fireplace.

“So,” George said, once they had come back down to the shop floor. “What do you think?”

Pansy looked around. Despite it being a cold, early October morning, there were already plenty of customers browsing the merchandise, many items of which Pansy instantly wanted to break apart and try to figure out. The house was gorgeous, and Pansy would have plenty of her own space, but would not be alone in there either. Harry, Ron and Hermione were nearby, and George… well, she could not say for sure just yet, but it felt like George could be her creative twin.

She glanced at Harry, Ron, and Hermione. All three of them beamed at her, and she couldn’t help but smile back.

“Why don’t we talk salary?” she answered, and George started to clap.

Nearly four years later, Pansy was being woken up every morning in a gorgeous bedroom (yay!) to the cries of Freddie Mercury or Ozzy Osbourne or Bono (boo!), then spending her days tinkering with Charmed objects and selling them to people who, after a time, were far too interested in what they were buying to be bothered about the fact that a Death Eater’s daughter was selling it to them (yay). To quote another of her frequent unwelcome morning guests, Meatloaf, ‘two out of three ain’t bad’.

After spending that morning on the shop floor, George suggested she take some time that afternoon to work on a Tastebud Altering Potion they had recently been collaborating over. Pansy was feeling pretty peopled out at that point, so she leapt at the opportunity for solitude and hot-footed it to the lab.

The potion was sitting in stasis on one of the three cauldron set-ups that, while theoretically able to be dismantled, had taken up permanent residence on the bench long before she started working in there.

Pansy grabbed one of the nearby stools and brought it in front of the cauldron. She checked the small hearth underneath it to make sure it had enough kindling. She then pulled on her fire-resistant gloves (a Christmas gift from Ron last year, that she had been Extending, little by little, until they reached their current state of finishing just above her elbows), aimed her wand at the hearth, and opened her mouth to utter _Incendio_...

...and no sound came out. Pansy felt her heart start to race, and she closed her eyes, straightened up, and did some counting breathing. In for four, out for eight, just like Ron had shown her four years ago. She felt a little calmer, but when she tried to say the incantation again, the words still would not come out.

She looked at the hearth again, and her wand hand started to shake.

 _This_ , she thought to herself, _is not good_.

~*~


	3. Six Hours on the Train, Condensed into One Floo Journey

** ~10th September, 2002~ **

Pansy wanted to stand up. The chair she was sitting on was not uncomfortable, per se. She had definitely had to sit on worse things in her time. But at that present moment it felt too restrictive, having to just sit and wait. If she were standing, she could work out some of the nervous energy that was driving her nuts.

A large, freckled hand rested on top of the hand she was using to grip the arm of the chair.

“Relax, Pans,” Ron instructed her. “Remember, we’re just here to chat to Hermione. That’s all.”

“Yes… yes,” Pansy agreed. “I… I know. But the topic of conversation is--”

“--is something that we’ve talked about with her many times before,” Ron interrupted. “The only difference is that we’re now going to do it in her office.”

Pansy swallowed, and nodded. Despite Ron’s logical and completely true assertion that what was happening was nothing to be concerned about, Pansy felt as though she might just keel over from the stress of it. Indeed, if Ron hadn’t been there, she probably would have, by now.

“Thanks again, Spoons,” she said, meekly, “for taking time out of your morning, for me.”

Ron smiled, and patted her hand. “No worries. And anyway, you’d do the same for me.”

Pansy smiled back at him, and the door to the room opened to reveal Hermione, decked out in her purple Junior Healer robes.

The first thing she did upon seeing them was ask Ron why, in Merlin’s name, he hadn’t made Pansy a brew, since he was perfectly aware of where the tea-making facilities were and she saw no other way in which he could be useful. Ron rolled his eyes and lumbered off, muttering about ‘bloody nags’ and ‘regretting the marriage’, and Pansy was left to hope that the two of them were as bitchy to each other in private as they were when she, a devout fan of their banter, was around.

“So,” Hermione said, taking a seat on the other side of the desk, “it’s been two weeks since you’ve been able to cast _Incendio_?”

“Closer to three, actually,” Pansy corrected.

“And you always have those gloves of yours on when you try it?”

“Of course.” Pansy pulled the fireproof gloves out of her bag and laid them on the desk.

Hermione considered them thoughtfully. “They weren’t always that long, were they?” she asked.

Pansy shook her head. “I, er, lengthened them a couple of times,” she said.

“Why?” Hermione asked. “If you don’t mind my asking?”

Pansy frowned. “I don’t know. It just… it seemed safer.”

Hermione nodded. “Okay. What about other things? I know you can’t use the Floo...”

“Definitely not,” Pansy confirmed. “I usually Apparate, or, if it’s really long-distance I’ll get a Portkey.”

“Mmm.” The door re-opened and Ron appeared, three mugs of tea in his hands. Hermione threw him a soft smile before turning back at Pansy. “What about things like cooking?”

“Erm… well, George’s dad got him all excited about that eckeltricity stuff--”

“--electricity, yes?”

“And I might have suggested that he replace the stovetops with all-electric versions.”

Hermione frowned. “Really?”

“Not just because of the fire thing,” Pansy clarified. “I also want to get better at using Muggle stuff… but I admit, it’s nice that I can stir a pot of stew without wearing my gloves.”

She picked up her tea and took a sip. Perfectly sweetened, as it always was when Ron made it. Hermione didn’t take sugar in her tea, and when distracted she had a tendency to forget that other people like having sugar in theirs.

“How did you do last winter?” Hermione asked. “We all heat our houses with fires as you know.”

“Yeah. I, er… I usually wore a lot of layers and stuck to rooms that don’t have fireplaces. If I have to be in a room with a fire, I’ll sit as far away from it as I can. I couldn’t really relax when I was in a room with a fire, though. It… was a cold winter, for me. And I think I was worse with them than I was the winter before.”

“I’m not surprised,” Hermione said. “Your phobia has definitely been getting worse. It’s the only logical explanation for why somebody as magically capable as you is struggling to perform _Incendio_. It’s a Grade 1 spell - it’s not hard. Even Ron can cast it.”

“Ride a broomstick without my help, and then we’ll talk about which of us is less ‘magically capable’,” Ron retorted, but he was grinning. It was very clear that the two of them were bantering with each other for Pansy’s benefit.

“So, what do you think I should do?” Pansy asked now. “I guess I could get some of little Muggle fire twig thingies…”

“Bad idea,” Hermione disagreed. “If you’re wearing gloves this long to cast a Fire-Making spell with your wand, the chances of you being able to cope with matches right now are very slim indeed.

“Oh,” Pansy said. “Then maybe I get George to light my potion fires for me?”

“That might work in the short-term,” Hermione agreed, “but that would only address the spell-casting issue, which is just the latest symptom of your fire phobia, and the fact that this phobia is starting to affect your work makes me think that more drastic action needs to be taken.” Hermione’s warm brown eyes met Pansy’s, and the curly-haired witch fixed Pansy with an expression more serious than anything Pansy had seen since the trial four years ago. “Pansy, I think the time has come for us to treat your fear.”

Pansy’s eyes widened in horror, and her heart started to race. Ron grabbed her hand and gripped it so tightly that Pansy almost felt like she was losing circulation. But it was just what she needed; by concentrating on matching Ron’s grip, she managed to avoid a full-on panic.

Hermione took Pansy’s other hand in both of hers. “I know that sounds really scary, but I promise you, we will go through this together, and we will do it properly. We’ll take it one step at a time.”

“So, it’ll be like what Harry did, with Healer Graham?” Ron asked.

Pansy had to smile at the thought of Healer Graham. Right after the war, the Ministry had set up a mandate for everybody involved to be psychologically evaluated to see if they required treatment with a Mind Healer. Harry, to nobody’s surprise, required a lot of treatment. His sessions with the pretty, young, vibrant Healer Graham began shortly after Pansy’s trial. They had all originally thought that Harry would be able to carry on with full-time Auror training and meet with Healer Graham on the side, but once she found out about Harry’s appalling upbringing, she advised Harry to either take on part-time hours or go on a full-on sabbatical, or else he was going to be struggling for a very long time.

Healer Graham ended up working Harry through an intense mind-healing program that took about four months for him to complete. The program worked wonders for him, and Ginny was practically falling over herself with gratitude for the plucky Healer. Pansy was also very grateful, although a small part of her thought it a pity that one of her best friends was the Healer’s patient. If that hadn’t been the case, Pansy would have liked to ask her out.

The sacrifices she made for her friends.

“It won’t be quite the same, but I would like to do something equally thorough,” Hermione answered. “As for who would administer it… if you would be alright with it, Pans, I’d like to volunteer.”

“I’d like that,” Pansy said. She knew she could trust Hermione to be as professional as she needed to be, but she could not deny that the idea of having her friend take care of her was immensely comforting.

“I’ll put in a request with the department. Now, I think that this therapy should be the main thing you are concentrating on, at least until Christmas. Would you be able to dial back your work hours? Maybe leave the inventing side to George?”

Pansy considered it. “I don’t know. We’ve been getting ready for Christmas, and there are a lot of experiments and prototypes that I’m supposed to be testing. George could do it, but he says he needs somebody else there to bounce ideas off.”

“I see,” Hermione said, mimicking Pansy’s thoughtful espression. “Could somebody else take over, this season?”

“Not really,” Pansy answered. “The only other person George says he can work with on those projects is his twin.”

“Well then, it’s obvious, isn’t it?” Ron asked, breaking both women out of their reverie. “We need to tell Fred to get his arse down here.”

~*~

**~13th September, 2002~**

“That’ll be five Galleons, eleven Sickles.”

The bemused, middle-aged witch nodded, heaving her enormous purse onto the counter and shoving her hand inside it. Fred Weasley watched with an equally bemused fascination. He could spare a few moments’ idleness - it was a slow morning.

The Hogsmeade branch of Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes had been Fred’s home for the past four years. After the war had ended, Fred had spent several months in St Mungo’s, undergoing extensive treatment on his arm. In the end, he had regained most of the motor function, but the outer skin would always look raw and be sensitive to the elements. He wore a black sleeve over it nowadays, mostly as a form of protection.

When his treatment ended, and he was free to be the businessman he wanted to be again, he and George sat down to discuss their options. It was decided that he would go up to Hogsmeade and set up the shop there while George stayed in Diagon Alley and managed things. Once the Hogsmeade shop was set up (a process that they both believed would take a couple of months), the two of them would meet again and decide what to do next.

Fred thought he was going to struggle with being separated from George. He never had been before, after all, and he had never thought of himself as an independent sort of bloke. But, as it turned out, he really enjoyed working alone. He could set his own hours, he could make managerial decisions without having to discuss them (which was tedious and generally unnecessary), he could work on his own experiments, and it gave him a chance to be more hands-on with his employees, as George had a tendency to hog employee one-on-one time when they were together, under the guise that he was the ‘people’s twin’, or some bollocks like that.

And so, when he and George met up again, it was decided that Fred would run the smaller Hogsmeade shop by himself, while George would man the Diagon Alley store with this new co-manager he’d managed to find. And so they had carried on, for four years, with Fred feeling quite certain that he would not be moving back down to Diagon Alley any time soon.

Of course, one could be as certain about the future as one likes, but that rarely meant said future would proceed as predicted. After spending the rest of the morning serving customers, Fred gave his assistant the shop floor and headed upstairs for lunch. He had just managed to settle himself at his table with a bowl of soup and that morning’s Prophet, when a loud voice, identical to his own, shouted, “OI!”

Fred jumped, spilling soup down his front.

“Fuck’s sake, George,” he groused, picking up his wand and aiming a _Scourgify_ on his robes. “What in Merlin’s name do you want?”

Once he was sure the Cleaning Charm had worked, he turned to the large fireplace, where his twin’s head was grinning at him.

“We have a bit of a situation down here,” George answered. “My co-manager needs to take a few months off, and I have some projects down here that need finishing.”

Fred frowned at his brother. “So, finish them? Increase your employees’ hours? Hire a temp or two and confine yourself to your lab? How long have you been a business owner?”

“Mate, you know I’m rubbish at inventing things by myself. I’m not like you - I need someone to bounce around ideas with, and you’re the only other person with a weird enough brain for the job.”

Fred frowned. “So, what? You want me to drop everything and come down there until Christmas?”

“Of course not. I’ll give you the rest of the day to pack and sort out staff rotas.”

“That was meant to be a joke,” Fred deadpanned. “I can’t go down there. This shop needs to be managed too, you know. And what about my work?”

“Your supervisors can manage the shop, and you can bring your work with you,” George answered. “Look, Fred, I know you love your hermit - sorry, your ‘independent’ - life up there, and I wouldn’t ask you to do this if I didn’t really need it. I have to get these projects finished, and I can’t do them without either you or my co-manager, and my co-manager is soon to be out of commission. The only other option is that I don’t finish these projects, and we have no new Christmas stock. We both know that’s not great for business.”

Fred sighed. George was right, of course. During their second year of business, they had neglected to make new Christmas stock, and the punters were relatively few and far-between as a result. As it turned out, their target audience liked having new and different tricks to anger their families with every holiday season just as much as he and George did. Who would have thought it?

“Alright, fine, I’ll come. But I want the bedroom next to the kitchen.”

George whooped with joy. “I always keep that one reserved for you. Thanks so much for this, mate. Oh, and you’ll be able to meet my co-manager, at last! I think you’ll like her.”

“‘Her’?” It was presumptuous of him, perhaps, but Fred had always assumed that George’s co-manager was a guy.

“Didn’t I tell you she’s a bird?” George asked, before rapidly continuing on. “Doesn’t matter. Look, I’ll leave you to get yourself sorted. See you tonight?”

“Yeah, sure…” Fred said, and George’s head disappeared from the fireplace without another word.

Fred looked back at his rapidly cooling soup and sighed again. _Well_ , he thought, _at least if I’m in London, I’ll be able to have lunch at the Leaky every day_.

~*~

That evening, as Fred packed the last of his necessary belongings, he found himself remembering something his father had told him about Muggle travel. Apparently, regardless of how many people needed to travel or how much cargo needed to be carried, all Muggle transport was slow, like the Hogwarts Express, or cars and buses that cannot weave through traffic. A journey from Scotland to London could be expected to take your average Muggle at least six hours.

And all it took him was a single Floo journey. It struck him, not for the first time, that magic is a pretty marvellous thing, when all is said and done.

He took a final look around. His flat was tidy, and his wards were fresh. He didn’t want any of his employees being able to head up there without his permission. The rotas were posted on the staff noticeboard downstairs, and he had checked that all of his employees had a Wheeze’s token, so they could contact him if needed. That, he supposed, was everything.

He picked up his suitcase, heaved it into his fire, and threw in a handful of Floo Powder.

“Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes, Diagon Alley,” he said.

A moment or two later, he was stepping out into George’s ridiculously large kitchen. It looked just like it had done the last time he had visited, about six months ago. The one aspect that was different was the person now walking into the room. When Fred’s eyes landed on her, he had to do a double-take.

She looked a bit different to the last time he had seen her. Aside from her being less covered in dust and considerably more conscious, she also looked… gentler, he supposed, was the best way to describe it.

That said, she had hardly seemed tough as nails when they had shared that moment, over four years ago.

Fred was so surprised at seeing her there, inside his twin brother’s home, that he was unable to come up with anything more intelligent to say than, “it’s you”.

She cocked her head, considering him thoughtfully. “Yes,” she said, drawing out the word as if unsure how he would react to it. “It is me.”

“So…” Fred continued to stare at her as the pieces of the puzzle fell into place. “So you’re the one that George--”

“Did I just hear my name?” George’s voice rang out, just before he emerged from the stairs. “Ahh, Fred,” he said. “You’re here. Excellent. This is my wonderful co-manager, Pansy. Pans, this is my much uglier identical twin, Fred.”

“We’ve met,” Pansy said, not taking her eyes of Fred.

“Yeah,” Fred agreed. “We have. Once.”

“Oh, right.” George sidled into the kitchen and started opening cupboards. “That’s good to hear. It’s a bit easier to be someone’s housemate when you’re not strangers, I’ve heard.”

“Huh?” Fred finally managed to tear his eyes away from her, directing them instead at his brother. “She lives with you?”

“Yep. Has done since she started working for me. Well, for us, I suppose. She usually visits her mum’s relatives at Christmas.” George paused what he was doing and glanced at Pansy. “I guess you won’t be doing that this year, will you, Pans?”

“I will not,” Pansy confirmed. “I’ve got an official medical exemption, and everything.”

That explained why Fred had never seen her when he’d come down for Christmas in previous years.

“So, like I told you, Pans won’t be in the lab with us for the next few months,” George was saying, “she’ll be here, taking care of herself and making us army loads of gingerbread biscuits, if we’re nice enough to her.”

Fred shook himself, trying to digest all of the information George was laying on him. “So, let me get this straight. Pansy here is your Co-Manager, your Co-Inventor, and your housemate?”

“Yep.”

“Right. Wait… Ron talks to me a lot about ‘George’s housemate’… hang on.” He whipped back around to Pansy. “Are you also Ron’s best friend?”

“One of them,” Pansy corrected. “Pots is still around.”

“Pots?”

She blinked. “Sorry. Harry.”

“You call him ‘Pots’?”

She nodded. “Because of his last name, and because I’m ‘Pans’.”

Despite himself, Fred chuckled. “I like that.”

Pansy smiled at him. Fred blinked and looked away from her again.

“She’s pretty tight with Hermione, too,” George added. “Which reminds me, Mugs will be around quite a bit as well. She’s Pans’ Mind Healer.”

“Hermione’s also… wait, ‘Mugs’? Mind Healing?” Fred closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. “I really need to get myself down to London more often.”

“Mum’ll be happy to hear that.” George turned back around and opened another cupboard. “Would you two rather have sausages or pasta tonight?”

~*~


	4. Three Weeks of Awkwardness

**~15th September, 2002~**

Fred spent most of the weekend getting himself unpacked (George had been true to his word - his usual bedroom was just as he had left it) and setting up his equipment in the lab, which, like every room in George’s home, had plenty of extra space for him to use. Fred had no idea how George had managed to live the first twenty years of his life in such small spaces, if his natural preference had always been for Quidditch-pitch-size rooms.

By the time he had finished sorting himself out, it was late on Sunday afternoon, and he and George needed to sit down and work on the rotas. It was eventually decided that George would man the shop in the mornings, both of them would work together in the lab for a few hours in the early afternoon while staff manned the shop floor, and Fred would take care of the shop during the final shift.

“What about the weekends?” Fred asked, once that had been sorted.

“Pans will look after the shop, for most of them.” George answered. “We don’t normally go in the lab during weekends, and Pans thinks she’ll want to spend at least some time not thinking about her therapy.”

“What is this therapy she’s having, anyway?” Fred asked.

George raised his eyebrows at his twin. “You really think I’m going to tell you that? If you want to know, you’re gonna have to ask her.”

Fred rolled his eyes. “OK, whatever. Can you at least tell me if it has anything to do with why she keeps disappearing from the room whenever I walk in?”

“What?” George now looked at Fred as though he was losing his marbles. “You’re imagining things, mate.”

~*~

**~16th September 2002~**

On the first day of Pansy’s treatment, she Apparated straight to St Mungo’s reception, and was directed to the Mind Healing waiting room. When she was eventually called in to Hermione’s office, the curly-haired witch was placing a mug of tea in front of Pansy’s designated chair.

“Aw, Mugs, you shouldn’t have,” Pansy greeted her.

Hermione turned to her friend and grinned. “Only the best for you, Pans.”

Pansy took a seat and had a sip. Unsweetened. Hermione must have been distracted when she made it.

“So,” Hermione said. “Today I want to break down the treatment you and I are going to go through together. It’s called ‘exposure therapy’, and it’s used regularly in Muggle psychiatry.”

“What does it involve?”

“Funnily enough, it mostly involves exposure.” Hermione waved her wand at a nearby board, and a stick of chalk at the foot of it rose up and started writing.

“In a nutshell, exposure therapy is about desensitising the patient to the object of their fear, by gradually exposing them to stimuli related to that fear.” She pointed to the board. “So if you fear spiders, for example--”

“Please tell me you used this example when you helped Spoons.”

Hermione grinned. “Nah, I used fire with him.”

“Fair.”

Hermione pressed on. “So, if you fear spiders, the first thing you might do is read stories about them. Then you might look at pictures of drawn spiders, then still pictures of real spiders. Then you might look at moving pictures. Then you might look at real spiders enclosed in glass. And so on.”

Pansy nodded. “That makes sense. So what are the steps that we’ll go through?”

Hermione smiled, and placed a piece of parchment on the desk between them. “I thought we could work that out together.”

The two of them spent the rest of the appointment discussing the steps Pansy would take. Hermione then gave Pansy the homework of starting with step 1: reading about the importance of fire in magic.

“I suggest you spend an hour a day doing this homework,” Hermione said, closing Pansy’s newly-made patient folder, “and spend the rest of your time relaxing.”

Pansy raised an eyebrow at her. “Relaxing? I’m not that fragile, Mugs.”

“You’re not fragile at all, Pans,” Hermione agreed. “But we are tackling a fear that has been taking over a lot of your consciousness. That can be exhausting. Believe me, you’ll be wanting this relaxation time. Now, clear out. I have other patients to see.”

“Yes ma’am.” Pansy stood up and headed for the door. “Oh, one more question. Am I allowed to do this homework with other people?”

Hermione smiled. “Of course. You don’t have to go through any of this alone.”

“OK. I’d better send an owl to Spoons.”

“I’d suggest getting him to come over whenever he’s free,” Hermione said. “Since he gives you spoons, and all.”

“Exactly.”

~*~

**~30th September 2002~**

If there was one thing that had become crystal clear to Fred in the past two weeks, it was this: Pansy was definitely avoiding him.

He could not say he blamed her. Whenever the two of them were in a room together, and especially when they were alone in said room, it was the most awkward Fred could recall feeling in his life. Granted, he was not somebody who felt awkward very often as a rule, but still.

He was still struggling to wrap his head around the fact that his twin brother’s Co-manager and housemate was the woman who had been regularly in his thoughts ever since that moment during the Battle of Hogwarts.

She had captivated him in that moment. He could not deny that, even if he wanted to. That tiny, barely-there moment they had spent looking at each other’s eyes was forever etched into his memory. He couldn’t explain it, but he believed two of them had formed something - a sort of magical connection - in that moment. It was that connection that had compelled him to find her later that evening. And even now, after so much time had passed, it still felt like that connection was there.

The problem was, he had no idea what to do about it.

He was musing about this late in the afternoon as he manned the shop floor. They were due to close in ten minutes, and he was manning the till as he waited for the last couple of customers to either buy something or make their exit. The door opened, and Fred looked up to see his younger brother approach.

“Now there’s an eyesore if ever I’ve seen one,” Fred greeted him.

Ron gave him the finger. “Nice to see you, too.”

Fred handed over the small bowl of Every Flavour Beans he’d been snacking on all afternoon. “What brings you here? Are you looking to set off some Wildfire Whiz-Bangs in your office? You know, to liven things up a bit?”

Ron snorted in response. “The office could use it at the moment, but no. I’m here to see Pans. We’re gonna do some of her therapy together.”

“Sounds… like fun?”

“There are more entertaining things to do with one’s best mate, it’s true,” Ron agreed. “But you’ve gotta be there when a friend is struggling, don’t you?”

“Indeed.”

“I’m gonna head on up.” Ron threw a handful of Beans in his mouth and moved past the till to the stairs. Fred heard him spluttering as he walked up, and he had to bite his mouth closed. He knew he’d find a good use for all those wasabi-flavoured Beans he had unearthed that morning.

\--

Fred was sitting in the living room later that evening, reading a book and applying a gentle Warming Potion to his arm, when Pansy walked in.

She froze when she noticed him, but clearly knew she would not be able to leave the room without appearing rude. So she offered him a nervous smile and took a seat opposite him.

“Spoons just left,” she told him, after a moment’s silence during which Fred wondered if, maybe, he should make an excuse and leave the room instead.

“Without saying goodbye?” he asked, pulling the most offended face he could manage. “How rude.”

“I know. I told him he should stick his head in the door, but he then said something about his gorgeous wife and meatballs for dinner, and I made a joke about balls, and he left in disgust.”

Fred’s shout of laughter was louder than he intended it to be, and he saw her jump in surprise.

“Sorry.”

Pansy waved a dismissive hand. “No problem. I’m known for my shouts of laughter. Besides, I’m glad somebody finds me funny. Getting Spoons to laugh at my jokes is a real challenge… although I suppose it doesn’t help that most of my jokes are made at his expense.”

Fred let out an amused snort, before asking the question that had been bugging him for the past two weeks. “Why do you call him ‘Spoons’?”

“A couple of reasons,” she answered. “I was trying to come up with a name that matched the kitchenware theme of ‘Pots’, ‘Mugs’, and ‘Pans’. One evening I heard Mugs yelling at him to wash some spoons, and hearing the word ‘spoons’, in relation to Ron, reminded me of the Spoon Theory.”

“The what?”

“The Spoon Theory,” Pansy repeated. “It’s a metaphor for living with chronic illnesses, mental illnesses, and disabilities, invented by a Muggle named Christine Miserandino. Mugs told me about it when I asked her about Muggles’ attitudes to mental illness. Miserandino has a chronic illness, and one day a friend of hers asked her what it was like, living day-to-day with her illness. They were in a diner, and Miserandino grabbed a bunch of spoons and gave them to her friend, saying that her friend now had her illness. The two of them then went through a standard day, and every time her friend did an activity, Miserandino would take away a spoon. Once all of the spoons were gone, the friend could not do anything else for the rest of the day. The Spoon Theory demonstrates how people with chronic illnesses need to think about how many ‘spoons’ they have, and make decisions based on how many ‘spoons’ they can spare.”

“Okay…” Fred said slowly. “But what does that have to do with Ron?”

“Ron rescued me when my home was set on fire,” Pansy explained. “He was my support that night, and he kept on being there for me while the fire was being investigated and all the rest. Since then, my fear of fire has been getting worse, and when the fear gets the better of me, it’s like I have fewer ‘spoons’ to use. But when Ron’s around, I seem to have more ‘spoons’. I gave him the nickname ‘Spoons’, because he gives me spoons.”

When Pansy finished speaking, the room fell silent again, but this silence was not uncomfortable. Rather, it was productive, because it allowed Fred to take in all of the information he had just received.

He knew it was a mean thing to think, but of all his siblings, Ron had always struck him as the most ordinary. He wasn’t particularly smart, or athletic, or popular, or good with the ladies, or… anything, really. He wasn’t a bad kid, but being surrounded by so many clever, sporty, and/or popular siblings made Ron seem unremarkable by comparison.

And yet, the way that Pansy described him suggested that Ron was the most remarkable of them all. If he stopped to think about it, Fred could not think of anybody else he knew who had Ron’s natural ability to lift up the people around him. He brought Harry out of his 11-year-old shell, he compelled Hermione to take risks, and become a better witch because of it. Even he, himself, had to admit that Ron’s admiration of his and George’s work had always been a major motivator. Ron’s friendship was, in many ways, worth its weight in gold. And Pansy seemed to be the first person to properly realise that.

One thing was for sure - Fred was never going to think of his younger brother as ‘unremarkable’ again.

“It’s an excellent nickname,” he ended up saying to her.

“Thanks,” Pansy said. “I’m proud of it.”

Fred smiled at her, then looked at his watch and decided it was about time for him to prepare for his shower. He found his black sleeve and slipped it back up his arm.

“Why do you wear that?” Pansy asked.

“My arm’s a bit sensitive to the elements these days. The sleeve protects it.”

“I see.” Pansy frowned, and seemed to be weighing a decision in her mind. “Why is your arm sensitive? Er, if you don’t mind my asking, that is?”

“Nah, it’s all good.” It wasn’t like he was embarrassed about his injury - he’d show it off proudly, if the damaged skin weren’t so finicky about touch and temperature.

He whipped off the sleeve, stood up, and showed Pansy his arm.

“Oh my word,” she gasped. He couldn’t blame her. The mottled skin was definitely a sight to behold. “How did that happen?”

Fred frowned. Answering that question would bring them into the as-yet unchartered territory of discussing the Battle of Hogwarts. He was not sure he was ready to talk to her about that… especially when this was the first time the two of them had managed a not-awkward conversation.

So he instead tried to skirt around that moment, and talk more generically.

“It happened during the Battle of Hogwarts,” he explained. “There was an explosion that I was way too close to, and my arm here got burned in the blast.”

“‘Burned’?” Pansy repeated in a whisper.

“Yeah. Burned. Singed. Exposed to unnatural amounts of heat. Something like that. I can’t remember the specifics. I just know that it hurt like hell, and I’m lucky to be alive. I think I felt some of the skin melting off at the time… sorry, that was a bit graphic.”

Chuckling to himself, he looked at her, and immediately wished he hadn’t. She was sitting ramrod straight, her eyes wider than Fred thought eyes could physically get. Her mouth was slightly open, and her breath, he realised, was coming in loud, desperate gasps, as if she had just completed a marathon.

“No…” she gasped, in a whisper so faint that Fred barely heard her. “Fire…”

_Shit_. Fred was fairly sure he had never seen a person panic before this moment, and he was now absolutely sure that he never wanted to see it again. Her breathing got louder still, and Fred had no idea what on earth to do.

“I’ll be right back!” he exclaimed, and he raced out of the room like he’d stolen something from it. Sprinting into the kitchen, he ignored George’s surprised expression, threw a handful of Floo powder into the fireplace, and shoved his head inside.

“Ron and Hermione’s house!” he barked out.

A moment later, his brother’s confused face was staring at him.

“Haven’t you seen enough of me today?” he asked.

“Mate, get over here,” Fred said. “It’s Pansy. She’s panicking…”

Ron leapt up and Disapparated without another word. Fred pulled his head out of the fire and saw Ron race into the living room.

“What the actual ever-loving hell is going on here?” George demanded, standing up.

Fred leaned against the wall and let out a loud breath of air. “I showed Pansy my arm. It spooked her.”

“Oh shit.” George looked past him to the living room. The door was slightly open, and they could just make out Ron’s kneeling figure. Fred could hear him talking, but he was speaking so quietly that he couldn’t understand what he was saying.

Fred exhaled again. “Not my finest hour,” he said.

George gave his shoulder a forceful pat. “Don’t worry, mate. I lit the fireplace once without warning her, and I swear she nearly fainted. Her fear of fire makes Ron’s fear of spiders look like child’s play.”

“Bloody hell.” Fred glanced at the living room again. “Any idea how I can make it up to her?”

George considered the question for a moment. “In my experience, she doesn’t care much about people ‘making it up to her’, when she panics as a result of their actions. She knows that we haven’t done anything wrong or unkind or whatever else. But, she likes it when people take the time to get to know her… including her phobia. Maybe you could spend some time with her?”

Fred mulled it over. “I wouldn’t mind that. Of course, after what has just happened, there’s a good chance that she will not want to spend any time with me at all.”

The thought of that sent an unpleasant wave of dread through him

~*~

**~4th October 2002~**

Having spent four years living with a major phobia, Pansy was more than familiar with the process she went through whenever she had a major panic attack.

The first day usually passed in a fog. Pansy would usually do the absolute bare minimum that needed to be done, mainly because she did not trust herself to work at her best, but also because she struggled to concentrate on anything more than the basics.

The fog started lifting on the second and third days, during which time Pansy, in direct contrast to the first day, found great comfort in throwing herself into whatever work she felt able to do. This often made it a period of greater productivity than usual.

If the previous three days had proceeded normally, Pansy expected to feel mostly back to normal by the fourth day. When the opening chords of Paul McCartney and Wings’ ‘Jet’ blasted out of her alarm clock the Friday after Fred had shown her his arm, Pansy awoke to feelings of heightened anxiety, but she was confident that she would be able to manage it without too much trouble.

Hermione had been correct when she had told Pansy she would be grateful for the relaxation time during her treatment. She had been diligently exposing herself to fire-related material as per Hermione’s instructions, and although it had not been too much for her to handle, she would finish her exposure sessions feeling on-edge. It would take her a couple of hours, at least, to calm herself down.

Apart from assigning Pansy weekly exposure homework and looking into mind exercises she could do to strengthen her ability to cope, the other thing Hermione discussed with her were ways to relax. Pansy had wryly commented during her first appointment that nobody should need to be taught how to relax, and Hermione agreed with her, but explained that it was a sad fact of modern life that many people did not know how to ‘chill out’.

“And I’ll admit to being one of them,” Pansy had said, with a sigh. “So, how do I relax?”

“You’re gonna hate this answer,” Hermione said, “but it really depends on the person.”

“Of course it bloody does. On an unrelated note, Mind Healing sounds more and more like something any idiot with the ability to say ‘it depends’ can do.”

Hermione grinned. “It is a rigorous exam, though. The intonation of ‘it depends’ has to be absolutely perfect.”

Pansy rolled her eyes, but she couldn’t resist a grin. “Alright, can you at least give me some suggestions of things to try.”

“Of course.” Hermione opened Pansy’s patient folder to a fresh sheet of parchment. “So there are the more cliched activities, if you like, such as having luxurious bubble baths, and going for walks in nature.”

“Eugh.” Pansy hated bubble baths. The perfume of the bubbles always gave her a headache, and the hot water made her sweaty, and she did enough sweating in her own time, thank you very much. As for walking in nature… the ‘walking’ part she could cope with, but ‘nature’ was something she felt she was sufficiently evolved enough to be allowed to avoid.

“I didn’t think that would be your cup of tea,” Hermione agreed. “What about getting on a broom? Harry or Ron would probably lend you one of theirs once in a while.”

“Hmm.” It had been years since Pansy had gotten on a broom, but she had always enjoyed it when she did. There was something quite freeing about feeling the wind on her face and not being tied to gravity.

“Speaking of Harry and Ron… and me, hopefully… you could do things with us, like cooking or playing chess or that stupid paint shooting thing you and Harry used to do.”

“Paintball, yes!” Harry had taken her to a paintball park a couple of years ago, and they had both declared that shooting balls of paint at people who looked at them too stupidly was one of the most fun activities either of them had ever experienced. They went a couple more times, but then they both got busy with work and hadn’t picked it up again. Perhaps now was the time to do that.

“And there’s always sex, of course.”

Pansy was not quite sure she had heard Hermione correctly, at first. “I’m sorry, what?”

“Sex,” Hermione repeated. “Definitely one of my preferred relaxation techniques. Ron’s, too.”

Pansy blinked. “That was not a mental image I needed.”

“Sorry,” Hermione said, although her accompanying grin showed that she wasn’t in the least bit apologetic. “But, while we’re on the subject, it might be worth discussing. When was the last time you, to use the Muggle phrase, ‘got any’?”

Pansy frowned. It was a good question. She had lost her virginity when she was sixteen, to a Slytherin seventh year, in an attempt to make Draco pay her a small amount of attention. She and the Slytherin (whose name Pansy could not remember) had kept it up during his final months at Hogwarts. That summer, she ventured into Muggle London for the first time, and hooked up with a couple of randoms. She had wanted to get a taste of freedom and rebellion at the time, and, to Hermione’s observant credit, losing oneself in the sensation of another person’s touch was an excellent stress reliever. Her final year at Hogwarts had been largely sexless, although she had had some dalliances with a pretty Ravenclaw who had been trying to work out her sexual orientation (gay as a picnic basket, Pansy liked to believe, once she had spent some time in Pansy’s company). Sex had been just about the last thing on Pansy’s mind after the war and during the trial. After she moved in with George and settled into her new life at Wheezes, she got into the swing of dating and had enjoyed the occasional casual relationship (the longest of which had lasted three months). There was also the memorable time that she and Ginny had collaborated on a ‘special gift’ for Harry’s 21st birthday. But, if she thought about it, it had been some time since she had slept with anyone. She just had not been very interested, of late.

“Maybe a year?” Pansy ended up saying to Hermione, who frowned.

“I’ve certainly heard of longer dry spells,” she said. Pansy longed to ask for details, but knew Hermione was way too much of a professional to divulge them. “Maybe it’s time for you to put yourself out there again?”

“Maybe,” Pansy said.

In the nearly three weeks since that appointment, Pansy had tried most of the techniques Hermione had suggested. Paintball had been an absolute blast, but she knew Harry was too busy to go more than once a month or so. Flying was pretty good, once she had gotten the hang of Harry and Ron’s broomsticks. She liked cooking, but unless George or Hermione or Ron was with her, she found it a bit too lonely to be what she would call ‘relaxing’. Chess with Ron was fun, but she had to be in the right mood for it, because she had a tendency to lose when she played against him.

The only technique Pansy had left to try was sex.

After she had showered, eaten, and spent her required hour looking at moving pictures of fire, Pansy spent much of the rest of the day musing on the best way to go about getting laid.

She supposed she could go into Muggle London and find herself a warm body. It would do the job, and it wasn’t as if enjoying a night of intimacy with a stranger was ‘beneath’ her. But sex with strangers always had an inherent sort of pressure about it - a feeling that she had to perform to a certain standard, because it would be rude not to.

There was also the option of starting a Friends with Benefits relationship with someone, but that came with the risk of ruining the friendship, which Pansy would find devastating. Besides, all of her friends were either in (generally) monogamous relationships, or not people she fancied sleeping with.

She supposed, then, that her only real option was copious amounts of masturbation. Which was fine, she supposed. She was no novice to taking care of her own libido. Having said that, she definitely would have preferred something a little bit ‘extra’.

She was sitting at the kitchen table, contemplating this dilemma, when she heard movement coming from the stairs. She looked around and saw Fred climbing up.

“Hi there,” she greeted him.

Fred started at the unexpected noise, but turned and gave her a small smile. “Evening.”

“Have you just closed up?”

“Yeah.” He took a seat at the table and reached for the teapot. “There was one bloke who bought ten of each type of Skiving Snackbox. Apparently he’s out of annual leave and wants to have a holiday in Edinburgh with his lovely lady wife. He didn’t seem to get that he’d only need to eat one to get those few days’ sick leave. Maybe he’s planning on eating all of them at once, so he can look really, really sick.”

Pansy let out a huff of amusement. “I know that there are different types of intelligence, but you have to wonder with some people, don’t you? At least the potency of the Snackboxes isn’t cumulative.”

“Indeed.” Fred took a long, restorative drink of his brew; something that Pansy had never been able to do with hot drinks. “Anyway, I’m glad you’re here. I wanted to ask how you’re doing. I’m so sorry for what happened on Monday.”

Pansy smiled at him. “I’m alright. Thanks for the apology, but it’s not your fault. I can’t thank you enough for getting Spoons for me.”

“Well, you had just been telling me how much he helps you. It seemed the most logical thing to do.”

“And you Weasleys are nothing if not logical.”

“Huh. Yeah, you might have a point there.”

Fred took another long drink, and the two of them fell into a silence. If Pansy had been alone, she would have sighed. She still was not entirely sure what to make of Fred Weasley. The only time she had spent in his proximity before he moved in was that moment in the Battle of Hogwarts; a moment that was surely too short to be of importance. And yet, despite the fact that she had sustained a head injury five seconds after that moment, and that more than four years had passed since then, Pansy still remembered that moment as though it were yesterday. In particular, she remembered the feeling of being locked in place; pinned to where she stood, and unable to move away from him.

For a moment that lasted less than a second, its impact on her was significant enough to feel like it had lasted for years.

She supposed it was the reason why being around him had felt so awkward. Neither of them had mentioned their moment, and she did not want to mention it, but she was certainly thinking about it, and she had a feeling he was as well.

She was glad they’d had that conversation on Monday, even if it had ended in her panicking. She liked talking about Spoon Theory with people, and she liked explaining why Ron was so important to her even more, since she felt he was less appreciated by the masses than the more obviously-brilliant Harry and Hermione. Fred had not been dismissive of her explanations, which she appreciated. And the fact that he had done something to help her when she was panicking indicated that he was as caring as his siblings, which was encouraging.

But still… there was something about him that she didn’t understand, and that lack of understanding made her nervous. Having said that, the ‘something about him’ wasn’t a bad something. Rather, Fred was… compelling, and part of her felt inexplicably drawn to him. The problem was that she didn’t know why.

“Whatcha got there?” he asked her now, bringing her back to the present.

“Hmm?”

“That parchment you’re holding. What is it?”

Pansy looked at the slip of parchment in her hand. She had been scribbling down the merits and demerits of each potential solution to her sex-to-relax dilemma. She felt her face heat up.

“Er, I’m trying to work out if I should start dating again,” she answered. It wasn’t a lie. Not completely.

“Oh, yeah?” Fred raised an intrigued eyebrow. “While you’re going through this therapy? You wouldn’t find that stressful?”

“I would. Especially if I tried dating within the Wizarding community. I’m still the daughter of a Death Eater, when all is said and done.”

Fred rolled his eyes. “That’s very true. And our community are morons. But anyway, moving on.”

“Indeed,” Pansy said, with a half-hearted chuckle. “But if I do start dating again, there are certain, er, aspects of it, that could be beneficial.”

Fred’s look of confusion only lasted for about a second. Thank Merlin that all Weasleys were sharp. “Ahh, yeah. I hear you.”

“Mugs wants me to work on relaxing,” Pansy elaborated.

Fred stroked his chin in thought. “You might think that I’ve been single for too long as I suggest this, but there doesn’t technically have to be another person there, you know.”

“I know that,” she said, impatient. “I just want to make sure I’m considering every option.”

“Gotcha… would using Patented Daydream Charms help?”

“...huh.” Pansy sat back in her seat. “I hadn’t even thought of using them.”

“Well, you should definitely give them a go. Especially those new ones; the ones that mould themselves to the subject’s ideal fantasy.” Fred grinned, and the best adjective Pansy could come up with to describe his grin was ‘secretive’. “Not to go into too much detail, but I had some good moments with those beauties while I was testing them.”

Pansy’s neck felt curiously hot, all of a sudden.

~*~

“I think I’ll go down to the storeroom now, and see if there are any Patented Daydream Charms to spare,” Pansy said, standing up.

She looked a little flushed, which Fred found curious. She’d been fine a second ago.

“There should be plenty,” he assured her. “The only time we tend to run out of them is around Valentine’s Day. I’m still not sure if they’re being bought by single people, or people who have been married for way too long.”

Pansy let out one of her characteristic shouts of laughter. She then gave him a thoughtful once-over.

“You know,” she eventually said. “Whenever another one of you Gryffindors enters my life, my inner child gets kind of annoyed. It’s like it’s saying ‘not ANOTHER one, Parkinson!’ at me. But, if I’m honest, I really don’t know what I’d do without you all.”

“I’m sure I’m speaking for my entire House when I tell you that you’re very welcome… although I will admit that it’s rare for a Slytherin to branch out this much.”

“It is, yes,” Pansy agreed. “And it probably wouldn’t have happened if it weren’t for the Battle of Hogwarts.”

Fred’s ears pricked up. _Was this it_ , he found himself wondering. _Were they finally about to talk about their moment?_

“Why? What happened at the Battle of Hogwarts?” he asked, trying to sound as nonchalant as he could.

“I was knocked out. There was an explosion, and I think my head hit a wall, or something,” Pansy explained. Fred felt his heart sink in disappointment, and it took all of his willpower not to let that disappointment show.

But then, Pansy kept on talking.

“When I came to, the Battle was over, and I was in the Hospital Wing. Madam Pomfrey told me that an old Gryffindor student had brought me to her. I couldn’t believe that a Gryffindor had done that. After what I’d done earlier that evening, I would have thought that anybody who wasn’t Slytherin would have left me there… and I can’t say I would have blamed them. It was a war, after all. The fact that a Gryffindor thought I was worth saving made me think that I needed to prove them right. So I swallowed my pride and apologised to Pots, and it all kept going from there. I wish that Gryffindor had wanted me to know who they were, so I could thank them. If it hadn’t been for them, my life wouldn’t be anywhere near this amazing.”

She stopped speaking, sighed, and smiled.

“It’s funny how these things turn out, isn’t it? Anyway, I’m off to the storeroom.”

As she walked past him, she laid a hand on his shoulder. “Thanks for your help, Fred.” she said.

Their eyes met, and Fred had to suppress a shiver. She offered him one last smile, removed her hand, and proceeded downstairs.

Once Fred was reasonable sure that she was out of earshot, Fred let out a loud groan and pressed his forehead against the table.

So that was it. That was the reason why Pansy was his twin’s co-manager, and his younger brother’s best mate, and altogether entangled in the great mess of people that were his family. It was all because of him.

Part of him felt he should be surprised. It is not every day that a bloke hears he’s the reason why somebody else’s life has changed for the better. And yet, he was not surprised. Not in the slightest. Rather, this revelation further proved to him that he and Pansy were connected. After all, he would not have gone and found her if the connection had not been there.

Having said that, until now, he would have said that the connection was ambiguous, and more spiritual than anything else. But now that the two of them had talked about sex, and images of Pansy having sex had flitted through his mind (without his permission, he might add), he suspected that the nature of his end of the connection, at least, was about to become more specific.

He had a feeling he was going to need to fish a Patented Daydream Charm or two of his own out of the storeroom.

~*~


	5. Months of Progress, Moments of Triumph

** ~24th December, 2002~ **

Pansy had to hand it to Fred (and George); the new Patented Daydream Charms were bloody excellent, and, as it turned out, they were a perfect method of relaxation for her. She could use them any time, she did not have to rely on anybody else to use them, and, if she were perfectly frank about it, they made for a far more thorough, satisfying experience than masturbation alone. Each Daydream Charm lasted for exactly thirty minutes, and consisted of Pansy getting thoroughly shagged by a nameless individual with pleasing physical characteristics and even better technique in the sack. She soon got into the habit of using them two or three times a week, and she was feeling more content and comfortable than she had for some time.

“Who would have thought that a bit of time to yourself would make such a difference?” she said to Hermione one evening in early November, when the curly-haired witch had come over after work.

“It’s pretty amazing, isn’t it?” Hermione agreed. “I have to admit, I wouldn’t have thought that those Daydream Charms would work as well as they seem to be doing. I might have to get myself a couple… for when Ron’s off on work assignments.”

Pansy groaned. “Why, no matter how many times I beg you not to, do you constantly feel the need to mention that you and Spoons sleep together?”

Hermione, to Pansy’s greater annoyance, actually thought about the question. “I probably would stop if your reactions weren’t so priceless,” she said.

If Pansy were honest, she couldn’t begrudge Hermione her moments of fun. Pansy had been friends with the Gryffindor witch for long enough now to know that she lived up to the claims that she was the brightest witch of her age. But even so, Pansy had not appreciated how truly brilliant Hermione was until she became her patient.

Once Pansy started regularly using the Patented Daydream Charms, Hermione’s treatment plan started proving its worth. Pansy could see her own improvement every week, as she grew more comfortable with fire. When George started lighting the fire in the kitchen towards the end of October, Pansy was able to stay in the same room as it without having a panic attack. A couple of weeks later, she moved herself close enough to the fire to feel its warmth, and the small part of her brain that was not feeling tense registered that the warmth felt nice against her cold skin. A few weeks after that, she lit the fire herself, with her first successfully-cast _Incendio_ in months.

Her progress was not without the occasional hiccup. There was one memorable occasion, in the mid-November, where she and Hermione started arguing about her fireproof gloves. Hermione wanted Pansy to start shortening them. Pansy was steadfastly against the idea.

“But they’re more protective when they’re longer!” Pansy had argued.

“No, they’re not,” Hermione calmly rebutted. “I’ve never seen a pair of fireproof gloves that long. They’re only supposed to cover your hands and wrists - the only parts of your body that, with your current lifestyle, could potentially touch fire that has not been altered with Floo Powder.”

“But… fire moves! What if it travels up my hand?”

“Pansy, normal fire doesn’t work that way,” Hermione said. “You know that - you spent weeks doing diligent research on different types of fire. You know that the only kind of fire that might travel up a non-flammable surface, like your arm, is Fiendfyre.”

“Yes…” Pansy said slowly. “Yes, I know that. But what if, I don’t know, I put flammable deodorant on my arms one day? Or I create Fiendfyre by accident?”

“Are either of those things likely to happen?” Hermione asked, with a frustrating patience that told Pansy she already knew the answer, and just wanted Pansy to say it herself.

“Yes!” Pansy therefore answered, childishly. “If I’m feeling really sweaty, I might put deodorant on other places. And we all mess charms up sometimes.”

“That’s true,” Hermione conceded. “But the alcohol in deodorant evaporates pretty quickly after it’s applied, and that’s the component that makes it flammable. As for accidentally messing up a charm, Fiendfyre is dark magic. It’s cursed; it can’t be cast by accident. The charmwork is complicated, and the caster has to have malicious intent. And _even if_ it were possible to cast it by accident…” Hermione raised a skeptical eyebrow at Pansy at that point, “Pans, come on. This is _you_ we’re talking about. I have never known you to mess up a charm.”

“But…” Pansy was out of logical arguments, and she knew it. But the idea of shortening her gloves was just… too much.

“I’m scared,” she finally said. She knew it was pathetic, but she couldn’t think of anything more appropriate to say.

Hermione nodded, and extended a hand. Pansy took it, and Hermione tightened her grip. For a relatively petite woman, there was some real strength hidden in that small frame. “I know, Pans. But you’ve shown incredible bravery so far, and you’re doing amazingly well. You don’t have to shorten the gloves all the way, straight away. Like with everything else we’ve been doing here, a little at a time is fine. But these gloves are a cover for your fear, and while you’re still using them, your fear will not be fully conquered. They need to go.”

She was right, of course. The problem with having an genius for a therapist is that they tended to be right about absolutely everything. And so Pansy reluctantly added glove shortening to her weekly treatment to-do list, and she was reasonably pleased with herself for having shortened them to mid-forearm length by the middle of December.

The other interesting development in her treatment, and the one that she would have been least likely to predict at the start of it, was Fred’s increasing involvement. She never asked him for his help, but his successful suggestion of the Patented Daydream Charms seemed to have lit an altruistic fire in him, and he had been volunteering to lend his assistance in any way he could since. He took her to paintball one weekend when Harry, sick to death with a cold, wasn’t able to go (and despite never having heard of guns before going, let alone operating a paint-loaded facsimile thereof, he was surprisingly good at it). He cooked with her (declaring at one point that they were going to have to start selling her gingerbread, because it was divine), flew with her (which included challenging her to races, none of which she had any chance of winning, and, to her dismay, forced her to go hiking with him one cold December morning (which she still refused to admit she had ultimately found enjoyable, although she suspected he could tell that she did).

In short, she was spending a lot of time with the other Weasley twin, and, when one waved aside the the background knowledge that it was all for therapeutic reasons, he was very enjoyable company. He carried elements of the best parts of both Ron and George, in that he had both George’s outlandish sense of humour and Ron’s intuitive ability to sense how she was feeling. But there was also something else, a certain quality about him that she couldn’t name, but she saw whenever the two of them locked eyes. Whatever it was, it was captivating, and the more time the two of them spent together, the more she found herself being drawn to him.

Also, she wasn’t sure how far she should read into this particular change, but she had noticed that the subjects in her Daydream Charms all started having sharp blue eyes, identical to Fred’s.

By the time Christmas Eve rolled around, Pansy had progressed so far in her treatment that she barely recognised herself. She was routinely lighting the fire in the kitchen, then spending the evening in front of it, soaking in its warmth. She had shortened her fireproof gloves to their original length, and, just a few days ago, she did not put them on at all, and did not realise it until after the fire had been lit. She was still going to have to keep exposing herself to fire regularly, and practising her relaxation techniques (which is good advice for most people, anyway), but the formal, intense part of her training was just about complete.

She only had one final task to complete: travelling somewhere by Floo.

“Alright,” Hermione said, taking a seat in front of Pansy’s fireplace. “One more time. What are you going to do?”

Pansy, who had been looking at the fireplace, shook herself and faced Hermione. “I’m going to take the Floo to your house and back again.”

“That’s right. How are you going to show me that you’ve done the full journey?”

Pansy grinned at that. “I’m going to bring you one of your mugs.”

“Exactly. And if there is a problem?”

“I’ll activate my token.” Pansy held up the Galleon that Hermione had previously pressed into her hand.

“Correct.” Hermione smiled. “I think you’re ready. How do you feel?”

Pansy considered the question. She looked back toward the fireplace, which was crackling merrily with the fire she had lit herself earlier that evening. She felt a twinge of anxiety as she looked at it, but it was only that; a twinge. She had a feeling that those twinges would never completely disappear, but that was okay. She knew how to handle them.

She was ready.

“Good,” she, therefore, told Hermione. “Let’s do this.”

Hermione nodded, and gestured to the fireplace. Pansy stepped forward, took a handful of Floo powder out of the pot, and scattered it on the flames. They turned bright green straight away. Pansy took a deep breath, slowly exhaled, and stepped into the fireplace, shouting “Ron and Hermione’s House!” as she did so.

The gentle warmth of the charmed flames licked against her legs for the briefest of moments before she was whisked away.

~*~

Fred climbed the last few steps to the flat with exhausted feet, thinking about little else but the prospect of his bed. The Christmas rush had been insane, as it was every Christmas Eve. George had joined him for the remaining hour of so, and, in a rare move of generosity, had told him to head upstairs as soon as he put up the ‘Closed’ sign. “I’ll tidy up, mate. You go and put your feet up.”

When Fred entered the kitchen, he noticed the unmistakable head of bushy brown hair that could only belong to his younger brother’s wife.

“Hey Hermione,” he greeted her. “What’re you doing here?”

Hermione turned, and Fred got the impression that she was a little on-edge. She was frowning, and her alert eyes were not meeting his.

“I’m here for Pansy,” Hermione explained. “She took the Floo to my place about five minutes ago.”

“Oh, yes. She mentioned she’d be doing that today.”

“Mmm.” Hermione looked back towards the fireplace. “Only, she really should have been back by now. I told her to Floo over there, grab a mug, and come back. Ron’s not there, so it’s not like she’s been caught up in a conversation with him. She might just be taking her time, or snooping in our bedroom, or something, but I don’t want to leave here and check, just in case she comes back and needs my help.”

“I see.” Fred glanced at the fire, then at Hermione’s worried face. “I suppose I could go over there and check on her, if you like?”

“Oh, would you?” Hermione turned back to him, a relieved smile blossoming on her face. “That would be really helpful, Fred. Thank you.”

“No worries.” He strode to the fireplace and scooped out a handful of Floo powder. “If I’m not back in fifteen, I’d say you should come for us.”

“Alright,” Hermione said, immediately looking nervous.

Fred offered her his most reassuring smile. “I’m sure everything’s fine. It’s just in case, you know?”

Hermione nodded, but she still looked uneasy. Fred decided to leave it and stepped into the fireplace.

“Ron and Hermione’s House!”

A moment later, Fred was stepping out of another fireplace, into a cosy little kitchen.

_Just Hermione’s style_ , he thought to himself, brushing soot off his work uniform. “Pans?”

“Fred?” called a familiar voice. “What’re you doing here?”

“Checking on you.”

He heard a shoe tap against the wooden floor behind him, and turned around. Pansy had dressed for comfort that evening. She was wearing a cream-coloured, loose, knitted jumper that fell to just below her hips; black leggings; and fluffy slipper boots. Her pale face had a slightly blotchy look that indicated she had no make-up on. She was wearing her thick-rimmed reading glasses, and her long hair was in its usual high ponytail, which now looked a little messy, probably because it was the end of the day.

In short, she looked lovely.

Pansy cocked her head, considering him. “You didn’t have to check on me, you know,” she said. “I’m alright.”

Fred cleared his throat. “I can see that. But Mugs was worried. She said you were supposed to go back straight away?”

Pansy frowned, but nodded. “Yeah, she’s right. I was just… thinking.”

“Oh yeah?” Fred took a seat at the little kitchen table, and gestured to the chair next to him. “What about?”

“I was just thinking that, well, I’ve done it,” Pansy started, sitting in the indicated chair. “I went through the Floo. It was a bit scary, but I did it, and I know I can do it again.”

“That’s great, though,” Fred said, “...isn’t it? Wasn’t this your final therapy goal?”

“It was,” Pansy confirmed. “And I am really proud of myself.”

“Okay…” For someone who claimed to be proud, Pansy sure was not acting like it.

“No, I am,” Pansy insisted. “It’s just… I got here, and I was getting a mug out of Mugs’ cupboard, and I… I don’t know.” She bit her lip, and Fred’s ears suddenly felt a little hot. “I guess I realised that I can do so many things now, that I haven’t been able to do for years, and it’s kind of overwhelming.”

Fred nodded. “That makes sense. I felt the same when George and I started making serious money. We spent our childhoods in hand-me-downs, and suddenly we could have our robes tailor-made, if we wanted. It was a lot to take in.”

“That’s it!” Pansy exclaimed, now staring at Fred in earnest. “Oh, thank Merlin, I thought I was being stupid! I’ve wanted to be able to use the Floo for years, and now that I can, I was thinking about how… how I could travel to somewhere as far away as Sydney in one trip, without a Portkey, or how I could go out and get sloshed, because I don’t have to worry about being sober enough to Apparate home. I don’t have to Apparate ever again, if I don’t want! It’s amazing. It’s all so amazing… but it’s too much.”

Pansy’s hand was lying on the table between them. Fred considered it for a moment, but he had never been one to dither, and he quickly decided to throw caution to the wind and take Pansy’s hand in his. A moment of surprise flashed through her eyes, but she didn’t pull away.

“It is a lot,” he said softly. “But the nice thing about having a lot of options is that you don’t have to go for all of them. You don’t have to go for any of them, if you don’t want. Nobody’s going to think any less of you if you still choose to travel overseas by Portkey, or if you continue to Apparate home after a night out. The only difference now is that another option is there. But you don’t have to take it. That’s all still up to you.”

Fred did not think he had said anything particularly insightful, but Pansy seemed to find his words profound. At any rate, the room fell silent as she mulled it over. While she pondered, Fred noticed that her thumb was idly moving back and forth across the heel of his hand. As soon as he saw that, his ears felt hot again. _How_ , he wondered, _is something as insignificant as that enough to get me hot and bothered?_

Suddenly, the fireplace burst into life again, and Pansy’s hand flew out of his as she jumped in surprise. They both turned to the fireplace as Hermione appeared within it, looking thoroughly pissed off.

“What, in the name of Merlin’s entire lingerie drawer, are you two doing!?” she exclaimed. “I’ve just spend the past fifteen minutes out of my mind with worry, and you’re just sitting here, what, having a chat?”

“So sorry, Mugs,” Fred said, raising his hands in surrender. “We were talking about freedom and choices.”

“Oh yes?” Hermione asked. “Like the ‘freedom’ you had to drop me a line and let me know that Pans wasn’t lost, or panicking, or hurt? And the ‘choice’ you made to keep me uninformed?”

“Pans Floo’d without a problem, by the way.”

“Don’t try to distract me from being pissed off at you, Fred Weasley,” Hermione scolded him. “But, yes, well done, Pans. I’m really proud of you, as well as slightly ticked that you didn’t let me know you were alright.”

Pansy’s apologetic smile could have melted the coldest of hearts. At least, Fred thought it could. “I’m sorry too, Mugs. Thank you so much for believing in me.”

Hermione looked sorely tempted to grouse at Pansy for a little bit longer, but it looked like that smile ha, indeed, worked on her. “I’m always going to believe in you, Pans.”

Pansy stood up and wrapped her arms around the other witch.

“So what happens now?” Fred asked, once the two witches separated.

“Well,” Hermione said, looking at Pansy. “You need to be sure to keep exposing yourself, and making sure you’re not purposely avoiding fire. But as far as the intensive therapy is concerned, I’m happy to say that you no longer need it. You can start working full-time again in the new year.”

Pansy’s eyes lit up. “Oh, I’m so happy to hear that!”

“I thought you would be.” Hermione turned to look at Fred. “And I suppose that’s good news for you, too,” she said to him. “You’ll be able to go back to the Hogsmeade store, now.”

Fred blinked at her. It was stupid of him, perhaps, but he had somehow forgotten that Pansy’s successful completion of her treatment meant that he would be heading back up north.

If Hermione had told him this news a couple of months ago, he would have been delighted. He’d wanted nothing more than to get back up to his smaller, more comfortable home in Hogsmeade. But now… he could not deny it. He would be sad to go.

He looked over at Pansy, and their eyes met. He might have been imagining it, but he was fairly certain that she was also not keen to see him leave.

~*~


	6. A Christmas Evening

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The sexy times are happening here, folks. Thank you for your patience. :P

** ~25th December, 2002~ **

Pansy had never celebrated Christmas with her Gryffindor friends before. In the past, it had been the one time of year that she was unable to dodge her obligations with her extended family.

This year, however, Hermione had helped her out. Using her Healer qualification and Pansy’s intensive treatment as leverage, the Gryffindor witch had crafted a letter detailing to Pansy’s great aunt, the terrifying matriarch that orchestrated these elaborate, traditional, and unspeakably boring Christmases, that Pansy was required to be under medical surveillance this holiday season and simply could not be called away, even for a day, to take part in the yearly tradition.

When Great Aunt Gertrude sent her owl back, saying that Healer Granger’s explanation was acceptable and she sincerely hoped that when Pansy attended next year she would be bringing a well-bred Pureblood suitor, Pansy and Hermione exchanged one of the greatest high-fives in Pansy’s life.

“I can’t believe I’ll actually be having fun this Christmas,” Pansy had exclaimed.

And fun, she had. After she was greeted by the family with a round of applause for successfully Flooing to The Burrow, all nine Weasleys, their assorted spouses, and Pansy, gathered in the not-nearly-large-enough living room to exchange gifts. Pansy’s included a bottle of premium Firewhiskey (Hermione, “You need to let your hair down once in a while, Pans, which is something that nobody ever thought I would have the authority to say”), a set of woollen mittens (Ron, “Because you don’t need those other gloves I got you anymore”), a broomstick (Harry, “So you don’t keep borrowing mine and bending the bloody twigs”), and a large box of Patented Daydream Charms (George, “What’re those?” “Things to put in bubble baths, mum. They help her relax.”)

To her surprise and slight disappointment, there was nothing for her from Fred. As everybody filtered out of the room to begin lunch preparations, Pansy caught Fred’s eye. He strode up to her and pressed a small package into her hand.

“Open it when we get home,” he whispered in her ear, then walked away as though nothing unusual had happened. Pansy slid the little package into her pocket and followed him, trying her best to ignore how unusually hot her neck felt.

Lunch was surprisingly similar to the lunches she was served at traditional Pureblood christmases. Roast pork, buttery veggies, gravy, and hot Christmas pudding for dessert. The Weasley version was certainly more rustic than she was used to, but she felt as though it also had far more heart. Of course, that could have just been the large amounts of warm mulled wine talking.

After lunch, Pansy spent the afternoon with Harry, Ron, Hermione, Ginny, George, and Fred. The seven of them tested out Pansy’s new broomstick with a game of three-a-side Quidditch (something that Hermione was, unsurprisingly, very eager to sit out), then went in for more mulled wine and an impromptu chess tournament (in which she pleasantly surprised herself by coming second, after Ron, naturally).

In terms of what they actually did, it was not a remarkable day. But as far as enjoyment, warmth, and contentment were concerned, it was one of the best days in Pansy’s life, and a moment in time that she would remember for years to come.

By the time she, Fred, and George Floo’d back, it was quite late in the evening and Pansy was feeling warm, sleepy, and more than a little tipsy. She bid the twins goodnight and staggered into her room. Her bed was looking incredibly inviting.

She located her pyjamas and was just about to take off her jeans to put them on, when there was a knock at her door.

“Yes?”

\--

That Christmas day had been the best in Fred’s life since before the war, and as much as he tried to tell himself that it was because the food was delicious, and that the mulled wine was just the right temperature, and that it had been the first time in years that he had played Quidditch, he ultimately could not deny the obvious. The day had been amazing because Pansy had been there.

All day long, Fred caught glances of her laughing with Ron, or challenging Harry to inane competitions, or telling Hermione how she had felt, stepping into the fireplace that morning, and his heart skipped a beat every time. She looked so happy, and vibrant, and alive, and Fred could feel the connection between them so strongly, it ached.

He knew, now more than ever, that the connection between them was not all in his imagination. He happened to turn towards her several times, only to find that she had been looking at him. Whenever this happened, he could see that her hand was in her jacket pocket, playing with the little parcel he had passed to her that morning. When their eyes met, he saw her breath hitch with the surprise and guilt of somebody who knew they had been caught.

He could not go back up to Hogsmeade without confronting her, and telling her what happened at the Battle of Hogwarts. He could not leave everything up in the air.

When he, Pansy, and George Floo’d back, Pansy brushed herself off and bade them goodnight without looking back. As she staggered away, George made an idle comment about that sounding like a fabulous idea, and he trudged off to his own bedroom, leaving Fred alone in the kitchen.

He watched Pansy enter her bedroom and close the door, and considered his options. He should probably head back to Hogsmeade within the next couple of days, so he had time to see how everything was and straighten out what needed straightening before the new year. That meant he might not have any more chances to talk to her. He also had indulged in the mulled wine a little more than was advisable, and he knew she had as well. While having a clear head could be advantageous, the dutch courage the alcohol offered struck him as more important right then. Plus, she still needed to unwrap his Christmas gift, and he wanted to be there when she did that. It was the perfect excuse to engage her in conversation.

Steeling himself with one deep, steadying breath, he marched over to her door and knocked.

“Yes?”

“Hey. Can I come in?”

“Sure.”

He opened the door to find Pansy standing in the middle of the room, a set of winter pyjamas in her hands.

“Hi,” she greeted him, neatly placing the pyjamas on her armchair. “Is everything okay?”

“Yeah, fine.” He offered her what he hoped was his most casual smile. “I just remembered there’s a Christmas present you still need to unwrap.”

Her eyes lit up. “Yes, of course!” Sitting on the bed, she shoved her hand into her pocket and pulled out the little package.

“Come. Sit.” She gestured to an empty space on the bed, and Fred sat down. The significance of his being on her bed was not lost on him.

She eagerly tore into the little package, her usually composed demeanor melting away with her enthusiasm to see what was inside. It was endearing to watch, but, of course, Fred was horrendously biased at that stage.

Her excitement gave away to confusion when she discovered what was inside. Fred could not say he blamed her. He would have been confused as well.

“A token?” she asked, holding it up.

Fred nodded. “Like the tokens Hermione likes to use.” He dug into his own pocket and pulled out another, identical, circular disc. “I made these two specially, so that you and I each have one.”

“That’s… nice,” Pansy said, but the confusion did not leave her face. “But if you want to get in contact with me, you can just send an owl… or Floo call, now.”

“I know,” Fred said, nodding. “But these tokens also act as Portkeys.”

Pansy blinked. “They what now?”

Fred sat back. “I was wracking my brain, trying to work out what to give you. George already called dibs on all the Patented Daydream Charms--”

Pansy snorted.

“--and I wanted to give you something you could use. And I realised that I didn’t really want to get you anything material. I wanted to give you a guarantee.”

“A guarantee?” Pansy echoed.

“Yeah.” Fred held up his token. “I wanted you to know that, even though I won’t be here in London, I will be available, should you want or need my help, or my company. If you want me to come over, or you want to come to me in Hogsmeade, you can. One of us just has to activate our token, and it will take us to the other token. We can also send each other messages with them, like those Muggle brick things you see them holding up to their ears or poking the buttons of all the time.”

“Mobiles, I think they’re called,” Pansy said, absentmindedly. She was turning her token around in her hand, inspecting it from every angle. “So, this thing will take me to you whenever I want it to?”

“Yep,” Fred confirmed. “Unless I disconnect it, which I’ll probably only do if I’m in the loo, or something.”

Her expression remained curiously neutral, which Fred found a little unsettling.

“So… do you like it?” he finally asked. “The charms I put on it are pretty nifty, if I do say so myself. And you told me once that you wished you could Summon your friends to you whenever you want their company. I thought this was a fun way to make that happen--”

Pansy flung her arms around him. Fred froze in surprise, but she continued to hang on until he relaxed and brought his arms back around her.

“Thank you,” Pansy whispered. “This is an incredible gift. You’re amazing.”

Fred smiled (not that she could see his face) and patted her on the back. “You’re very welcome.”

Fred would have been quite happy with them staying like that for a while longer, but after a couple of moments, Pansy lifted herself off him. Fred dropped his arms, but he felt a little tug upon his black sleeve. Looking down, he saw that Pansy had grasped it between her thumb and forefinger, and was looking at it as though trying to work out what to do with it.

“Something wrong?” he asked.

Pansy shook her head. “No. But I was just… I was wondering, would you show me your arm again?”

That was definitely not what he had expected her to say. “Are… are you sure?” he asked. Pansy was much better than she had been the last time she had seen his arm, but it was still not a pretty sight, and if Hermione’s knowledge was anything to go by, Pansy was still delicate enough around fire for any sight of fire-related damage to be potentially triggering.

Pansy nodded. “I’m sure. I just… want to see what it looks like. If I start panicking, I’ll tell you to cover it up again, okay?”

Fred was not sure about that, but he had well and truly learned by now that Pansy was aware of her limits, and that she would not be asking for this if she did not feel ready.

And so, he nodded, and reached for the tie at the top of his sleeve. Pulling it down, Pansy gasped softly at the sight of the raw, red flesh.

“It’s not pretty, is it?” he remarked.

He meant it as a light-hearted, self-deprecating quip, but Pansy seemed to think about it. “I don’t know,” she eventually said. “I’d argue that it’s kind of beautiful, in its own way.”

Fred had been called a lot things in his life, but ‘beautiful’ was not one of them. And if he were ever asked which of his body parts somebody might describe as ‘beautiful’ one day, he definitely would not have chosen his fire-damaged arm.

“Can I, um…” Pansy started to say, before shaking her head. “Never mind.”

“What?” He studied her face, and could see that she was blushing.

“Erm,” she said. “I was going to ask if I could touch it.”

Fred avoided laughing, but it was a near thing. “I can’t say I’ve ever been asked that before.”

Pansy smiled shyly at him. “I realised it was stupid as I was saying it.”

“I don’t think it’s stupid,” he assured her. “Just surprising. But please, by all means, touch it if you want.”

“Really?”

Fred nudged his arm in her direction. “Go for it.”

She offered him another shy smile, and brought a hand up to his arm. The moment her fingers made contact with the damaged flesh, a shiver went down his spine. His skin was so sensitive there, and Pansy’s touch, as gentle as it was, felt like a short jolt of electricity. It was not a bad sensation, though. In fact, if Fred were honest, it was a rather good sensation. Thrilling, almost.

“It’s… odd,” she murmured, her fingers running slowly down his shoulder. “It’s not rough or anything, but there’s all these bumps and ridges.”

“Mmm,” Fred agreed. “I’ve often thought that it’s like one of those paintings kids do, where they platter paint at random points and it dries like hard lumps on the parchment.”

Pansy chuckled. “I like that analogy.”

Her hand trailed down his forearm, and Fred could not suppress another shiver.

“You’re shivering,” Pansy commented.

“Sorry,” he apologised. “The skin is sensitive.”

“Should I stop? I don’t want to hurt you.”

“No, it’s alright. It’s… it’s kind of nice, actually.”

Her fingers stopped, and Fred looked over to see her staring at him. Their eyes met, and, much like the other times their eyes had met, he found it impossible to look away.

“Pansy,” he said, softly. “There’s something I need to tell you.”

“What?”

“I…” She looked so beautiful, looking at him with those large, brown eyes, her hair in that high ponytail, her delicate fingers still on his mottled flesh. His heart beat faster. He knew that he could be potentially ruining everything between them right now, and that would be devastating.

But the idea of not telling her at all was even more devastating than that.

“At the Battle of Hogwarts,” he, therefore, said. “That Gryffindor student, who found you, and took you to Madam Pomfrey? That was me.”

Silence. Pansy’s eyes widened further, and all he could do was stare back at her as she took in this new information.

“You?” she eventually whispered.

Fred nodded. He felt his cheeks warming up, and he pressed a hand to each one in an effort to cool them.

“But…” she continued, looking thoroughly lost. “Why…?”

“Why… didn’t I tell you?” Fred asked. “I didn’t know how. I wanted to work out the right way to say it, but then Hermione said I could go back to Hogsmeade, and I knew I just had to do it before I left, ‘right way’ be damned--”

“No,” Pansy interrupted him. “I mean, why did you help me? I’d just told everybody to give Pots to the Dark Lord. It was a war, and I was the enemy.” She looked away, but her fingers, Fred could not help but notice, stayed in contact with his arm. “Nobody would have blamed you if you’d left me behind.”

Fred frowned. It was disconcerting to hear her talk so casually about being left for dead in the middle of a war zone. But he had to admit she had a point. He had been through that war, and she was right. Nobody would have thought any less of him if he hadn’t gone back for her. Nobody would have even known, except for him.

And yet… he couldn’t have left her behind, even if he’d wanted to. That was what he thought at the time, and it was what he continued to think now.

“You ran past us,” he explained. “You ran past us, and you brushed against me. I grabbed your arm and you pulled me backwards. Then you ran off, and then there was that explosion that knocked you out. The same explosion that gave me this.” He gestured to his arm. “I’ve always had this feeling since then, that if you hadn’t run into me, and pulled me those few steps backward, that explosion would have killed me.”

Pansy turned back to him. Her eyes were still questioning, but there was something else in there. It looked like… fear?

“But,” she eventually said. “Me pulling you backward. That was just a coincidence. It didn’t mean that you had to go back for me.”

“I did, though,” he argued.

“Why?”

“Because… you stopped, and we looked at each other, and…” he shrugged helplessly. “I can’t explain it, but it was like time stood still. I saw something there. Something good. Something I wouldn’t have thought I could see in the middle of a battle.”

Acting on instinct, he shifted closer to her. A strand of long, black hair had fallen loose from her ponytail, and he reached out to brush it back. He might have imagined it, but he thought he saw her shiver at his touch.

“It was like… you made me believe that people could change, if they were given the chance. I felt connected to you then, and I still do, now. I went to find you, because I needed that connection to stay strong. You…”

He trailed off, because her hand had left his arm, and was imitating his, brushing the side of his face. Then it trailed forward, and the tip of her pinkie brushed against his lips.

“...you gave me hope.” Fred finished in a soft murmur, just as Pansy closed the distance between them and pressed her lips onto his.

The kiss was hardly explosive. Like many things about Pansy, it was soft, tentative, and achingly gentle, with a curiosity about it that Fred found unimaginably charming.

He felt her tilt her head to the side, and he responded in kind, opening his mouth just a little, and letting his hand travel to the back of her neck. He ran his tongue along her lip, and heard her gasp. He tugged gently on the loose hair at the nape of her neck, and she let out a tiny, almost inaudible moan.

She stopped the kiss, and her breath came in quiet pants as she brushed her hands across the side of his face. “Fred...” she whispered, closing her eyes. “The connection. Do you feel it?”

“Yes,” Fred breathed out. “Yes. I feel it.” He initiated the kiss this time, and her response, while still soft, was not quite so gentle, and far less tentative. He heard her sharp intake of breath, felt the pressure of her hands tightening, trying to bring him closer. Now that they had broken the barrier, it suddenly felt like they could not be close enough to each other. “I always feel it.”

“Me too,” she said, her hands travelling up into his hair. “I didn’t know what it was at first, but time stood still, during the Battle, and the memory was always crystal clear. Then you came here, and we spent all that time together, and… the Charms. I kept seeing your eyes, over and over, when I used the Charms, I didn’t get it, but… but I wanted you.”

Fred kissed her again, and somehow managed to back her onto her pillows, She tasted of mulled wine, and smelled of pine trees.

“Same,” he confessed. “Since I said you should try the Charms in the first place. I started thinking about you using them, and…”

“Oh, Merlin,” she breathed, as though she were becoming aroused by his words alone. “Kiss me again.”

He did, and he was not quite sure how it happened, but the next thing he knew he was hovering over her, and she was lifting his shirt over his head.

\--

Pansy felt high. That was the only way she could think of to describe it, and it still wasn’t particularly accurate. She was aware of everything that was happening - she and Fred were kissing, she had begun the undressing process, and he was continuing it with the swift unzipping of her jacket, followed by the less swift unbuttoning of her blouse. She knew she would be able to stop, at any point, if she wanted. And normally there would be a little voice in her head, telling her to keep her wits about her, just in case things started to go wrong.

But that voice wasn’t there. Everything Pansy was thinking was _yes_ and _more_ and _yes_ again, and not a single part of her felt unsafe. Rather, she felt like she was right where she should be. Her connection with Fred, generated in a moment of war-torn serenity and strengthened by months in each other’s company, was all the safety she needed.

She felt his hands slide underneath her, and she put up no resistance as he lifted her into a sitting position. Those same hands then slid under her unbuttoned blouse, and she shivered as they made direct contact with her skin.

Fred broke the kiss. “You okay?” he asked.

“Yes,” she breathed, resting her forehead against his. “That was a good shiver.” She placed her own hand over the palm that currently rested against her hip. “Your touch is like… I don’t know…”

“Electricity?” Fred suggested.

His hand shifted, just a fraction, and she felt another jolt of it.

“Yes,” she agreed. “It’s like electricity.”

Fred grinned, and kissed her again. They managed to divest each other of the rest of their clothing, and, at some point during that transition, his lips left hers and travelled down to the side of her neck. His teeth grazed the delicate skin there, and she whimpered.

“You’re so responsive,” Fred murmured against her neck.

“I’m not usually,” she answered, her hands now gliding along his bare back. “I think I’m feeling it more now, because it’s you.”

If asked, she wouldn’t be able to accurately use any singular word of the English language to describe the sound that came out of Fred’s mouth in response to her assertion, but, if pressed, she would perhaps call it a ‘growl’. Whatever it was, the sound of it went straight to her core.

Once they were divested of all clothing, Fred’s hand wandered from her neck to her collarbone, past her breasts, down her abdomen, before finally reaching the junction of her thighs. One finger slid inside, and Pansy’s breath audibly hitched as it made contact with her clitoris.

“I’ll say it again,” Fred remarked, his voice taking on a gravelly quality, “you’re so responsive.”

His finger stroked her tiny nub of pleasure again, and her nails dug into his back. She felt no need to say anything in response. He was correct, after all.

She felt his hand travel slightly lower, but it did not stay there long before he brought it back up.

“You’re also… how do I put this delicately? Fucking soaking.”

Pansy let out a shout of laughter, which sounded even more wildly out of place for her than usual.

The corners of Fred’s eyes crinkled in a amusement. “I love your laugh,” he said. “It’s so… uncomposed, which is unusual for you.”

“I can be uncomposed,” she defended herself.

He raised an eyebrow. “Prove it.”

She raised an eyebrow back. “Fuck me, and I will.”

Fred grinned, and lowered himself closer to her, so their foreheads were almost touching. “You’re pretty fucking sexy when you swear, you know.”

“I know,” she said, bringing her arms up to fall across his shoulders. “That’s why I don’t do it often. I can’t have everybody around me spontaneously orgasming every time I say the word ‘cunt’, can I?”

Fred said nothing at first, but she felt movement against her thigh that indicated his appreciation.

“Say that word again,” he ordered her, his voice low and gravelly again.

“Which one?” she asked. “‘Every’? ‘Around’?”

He growled and kissed her, his hand travelling back down. This time, when his finger brushed her clit, she thrust her hips upwards.

“Oh,” she said, feigning sudden understanding when they broke apart. “You meant ‘cunt’, didn’t you?”

“I did,” he confirmed, as he continued to explore hers. “But, you know, I hear you swear so rarely, I’m not sure you know what that word means. Define it for me.”

If you had asked Pansy before then what activities she found arousing, she was pretty sure that ‘pretending to participate in a spelling competition’ would not have been among her answers. But now she was going to have to change her view, because she was finding it insanely erotic right then.

“A _cunt_ , she said, emphasising the word with a jerk of her hand, “is an alternative word for the entrance into my body that your finger is currently probing.”

“Incorrect.”

“Excuse me?”

“It was two fingers.” He held up his hand, and his first and second fingers were both glistening with her arousal.

“My mistake,” she apologised.

“I’ll forgive you,” he said, gently inserting his fingers inside her again. “If you can use that same word in a sentence.”

She held in a groan as she thrust against his hand. She was itching for him to keep moving; to provide her with some sort of friction, but he remained still. Evidently, nothing further was going to happen until she did as he asked.

“Fine,” she said, bringing her hand to the back of his head and pulling him down, sharply. “I want you to put your cock in my _cunt_ , and fuck it until I see stars.”

Fred did not need telling twice. One moment his fingers were gone, and in the next, his cock was in, and both of them were sighing with relief at finally reaching that peak of physical connection.

“Well, that’s Part One sorted,” Pansy quipped.

“Alright, gimme a minute,” Fred requested. “Or else this is going to be over way too soon.”

Pansy raised an eyebrow. “I wish you’d told me I’d be having sex with a sixteen year old.”

She was expecting another cheeky response from him at that, but his voice instead went low and gravelly again as he brought his mouth next to her ear and said, “it wouldn’t be a problem if you didn’t look so insanely fucking hot right now.”

She clenched around him at his words, and he smiled his cockiest smile.

“Looks like I’m not the only one who finds swearing arousing,” he commented.

She dearly wanted to offer up a snappy retort about spending too much time with assorted foul-mouthed Weasleys, but Fred chose that moment to start moving, and Pansy’s need to defend herself ceased to feel so important.

Fred rocked back and forth, creating delightful little jolts of friction every time he thrust into her. She, in return, wrapped her arms back around his neck and moved her hips in time with his.

She pulled him toward her for one more kiss. Her tongue danced eagerly inside his mouth, tasting traces of mulled wine that made her suspect she would not be able to drink the hot winter beverage again without becoming at least a little aroused. As they kissed, she registered that his hand was, once again, on her cunt. He located her clit again and began to rub it in time with the pacing of his thrusts, which started getting faster as he got more excited. She moaned loudly into his mouth before hurriedly breaking the kiss, because she was getting too worked up to breathe properly without having her mouth free.

“Oh…” she sighed, closing her eyes and reaching behind her to grab at the head board. “This is so… it’s so good. I’m close.” She opened her eyes to find Fred watching her, the lust in his eyes unmistakeable. “Fred, I’m close!”

He smiled, and leaned down to murmur in her ear again. “You told me you could be uncomposed.”

“I can!” Pansy gasped, unable to fully control the volume of her voice.

“Then prove it,” he whispered. “Come for me.”

She moaned loudly, desperately, at his words, but she tightened her grip on the headboard and, using it as leverage, pushed herself as forcefully against him as he could. The jolt of pleasure she felt at being in control was indescribably good, and it only took two or three more of those thrusts before that final, releasing climax overcame her. And as she clenched around him again, he thrust into her once more before he came with a shout.

They continued to push against each other, almost lazily, as they rode out their respective climaxes. When she was sure that they were both done, she relaxed into the mattress and pulled Fred’s lips back down to hers. As they kissed, Fred shifted to lie down next to her.

“Well,” Fred said, after some time had passed for them to silently contemplate each other. “That’s one way to see out Christmas, I guess.”

Pansy looked at him in disbelief for a moment, before erupting in loud laughter. She brought a hand up to her forehead and let the laughter roll through her exhausted, satiated body.

~*~

Time, Pansy had come to learn, was a funny thing. She had been brought up to believe that the most important things that happened in one’s life are the ones that take the most time to organise. Weddings, dinner functions, wars, relationships. And yet, she had found that so many of the significant things to have happened in her life thus far were the result of moments in time that were so short, they almost seemed insignificant. A panicked moment among the entire student body of Hogwarts. A half a second of eye contact. Fifteen minutes in the Ministry of Magic. Twenty minutes in a house going up in flames. Those tiny moments were the important events.

What actually took time, she realised, was taking those events, unravelling them, and making them your own. Four years of friendship with your former high school enemies. Months of therapy to control a fear. Afternoons and evenings spent strengthening a connection that took less than a second to establish. Hours of love-making to discover how strong that connection was, and how strong it could be.

Pansy doubted she would ever fully understand how time worked. She doubted anybody did. In essence, living beings were all unwilling victims to time and all its whimsy.

But as she welcomed in the year 2003, by taking the Floo to the Hogsmeade branch of Weasley Wizard Wheezes, helping Fred sort out piles of new stock, then letting him pull her into his modest bedroom and shag her against the door (because he, ironically, felt he didn’t have enough time to walk the two steps to the bed), she found that she was no longer afraid of the tricks that time might play on her. Instead, she felt like she could make peace with the fact that time was out of her control, and trust that it would, ultimately, take care of her.

However, she still felt justified in her continued rage at that bloody alarm clock, and its ever-present insistence on waking her up to such soothing ballads as Ozzy Osbourne’s ‘Crazy Train’.


End file.
